


Seeds of a Dandelion

by Grumpelstiltskin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Chaos Ensues, Destiny, Don't fuck about with the Law of Surprise, Eventual Romance, Except Geralt Resents Destiny, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, M/M, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Roach gets a tag for putting up with these two idiots, SO that complicates things, but he's also a sweetheart, yada yada
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:22:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 57,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22107787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpelstiltskin/pseuds/Grumpelstiltskin
Summary: Jaskier didn’t mean to invoke the Law of Surprise. It was a drunken joke! Tomfoolery. Something that would have tickled him for days to come. He knows that. Geralt knows that. Everyone knows that. Surely destiny knows that too.… Destiny is a downright bitch these days though, huh?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 251
Kudos: 1110





	1. How (Not) to Thank a Witcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The Witcher, its characters or its songs mentioned in this story, and make no profit with it.

“Did you see that? Did you _see_ that? I think she might've fancied me, you know. Well, what can I say, I’m as debonair as they come equipped with my dashing good looks and irresistible charm. Of which is now proven to be effective on nymphs.” Jaskier preened as they made the return journey back into town.

Geralt grunted from his position on Roach. “The Rusalki are famous for being deceiving. The one you encountered likely got offended when her…allure failed to entice you.”

“While I am flattered, getting hoodwinked into some kind of frisky amour with one isn’t exceptionally high on my to-do list believe it or not.” Jaskier snorted.

“That’s odd.”

“What? What in the heavens could be odd about not wanting that? You might not think I listen to anything you say but I do! And I distinctly remember you forewarning me about them with stories of how they lure people into a watery grave with their voices alone.”

“If you had listened then you would know that any human unfortunate enough to encounter a Rusalka is often unable to resist her.” Geralt retorted.

Jaskier side-glanced him. “What are you implying here?”

“Nothing.” Geralt shrugged and rode ahead on Roach, signifying the end of their conversation.

One of these days Jaskier seriously needed to invest in getting a horse of his own. While it's... _nice_ to be walking across the lands at Geralt's side…well, it’s just that it's not. Regarding the walking part that is. That being said, it's done wonders for his physique. Sort of. He hadn't been acquainted with the true definition of a decent work out until he started plunging through swamps and scaling mountains to go on thrilling (and slightly ludicrous) adventures. He’d still appreciate a means of transport of his own though. Not that he has the coin for it…

Of course, Jaskier does come from a background full of wealthy sons of bitches - all of whom are far too big for their britches. But he was more likely to receive a letter from Yennefer of Vengerberg than he was from his own family. They’d chew off their arms and legs before giving him, the family disappointment and shame, anything at all. Even if they had all the money and horses in the world to spare. Not that Jaskier wanted anything from them.

A little more peeved he dragged his feet along the muddied roads, trailing behind. Jaskier was certain - _certain_ that two people could fit on Geralt’s horse. If Roach could hold the block of pure muscle that was Geralt then Jaskier would probably weigh little more than a fruit fly in comparison. But alas, Roach was practically sacred to Geralt. Who was Jaskier to request a ride upon the steeds back so that he might avoid ruining his beautifully exfoliated feet by constantly travelling across uneven terrain in temperamental weathers?

By the time they reached the town the sky had lapsed from its dreary bleakness to a light downpour, so they made a beeline for the local tavern. The second they were inside a crackling fire bathed them in warmth, chasing away the winters chill. Jaskier resisted the urge to moan. What? He’s been wandering the so-called great outdoors for days on end now without so much as a fur cloak! Excuse him for being delighted at the prospect of a warm supper and a warm bed.

Weeeeelll, actually… his memories of the past week are a little bit fuzzy. Missing. Gone. Packed up their bags and left his brain. That’s doesn’t matter though because Jaskier is pointedly ignoring the mildly concerning memory gaps for the time being. Or forever. Whichever suits him best.

A bright smile graced his lips and he opened his mouth to announce their presence. “Ladies and gentlemen, your valiant saviour has returned at long last! Those pesky nymphs that terrorised your lands will grievance you no more, all thanks to the White Wolf himself, Geralt of Rivia!”

The tavern fell dead silent, the patron’s gazes leaping between the pair of them. Alright fine. They _were_ quite the spectacle. Geralt dripping blood and covered head to toe in bits of mangled entrails which was… revolting. And Jaskier, the complete opposite, dressed in all of nature’s delights; leaves fasted to twigs twining around his body - only _just_ protecting his crowned jewels. Flowers scattered amongst his brunet hair, mud and berries painted over his skin in strange runic patterns, and vines crawling up his arms. Honestly, just attach some wings to his back and he’d look like a faerie. 

Let it be said now that no part of Jaskier supported this fashion statement. And he was all for a bold fashion statement from time to time. But this was edging on being a little too bold even for his tastes. Apparently, the nymphs deemed this attire appropriate during his stay at their little nymphly hideaway. Figures.

“You’re back.” One of the men closest to the doorway said, vaguely haunted to be seeing them again. “It’s been weeks.”

“Ah, just the one week.” Jaskier corrected, confidently striding ahead. Geralt sighed, following close behind.

“And the nymphs? They’re gone?”

“Do you honestly believe that one will ever set foot in this town again with the way he looks and smells?” Jaskier countered smugly, jabbing a thumb in Geralt's direction. “Pay the good man, will you?”

“Right. Of course.” The man replied, fishing into his pocket and tossing a bag of coin to Geralt who caught it without even looking over his shoulder. “You have our thanks, Witcher.”

The whole room exploded with applause; people whistling and cheering, raising their drinks to the Witcher. It took everything in Jaskier not to snort at the constipated expression morphing over Geralt’s face. The man was not accustomed to high praise.

“Hm.” Geralt grunted, stiffly seating himself on a stool at the bar and waving over the bartender. “Ale.”

“Yes, of course. Of course. On the house.” The bartender babbled and rushed off.

Jaskier rolled his eyes and trotted off to go and find someplace to bathe. Usually, at this point he’d have sung a song about their extortionary adventure and gained them some extra coin; however, his mood was somewhat soured by the fact he desperately wanted to get clean and rid himself of this ridiculous outfit. It wasn’t embarrassing… it took a lot to actually embarrass him. If anything, he just didn’t appreciate nearly flashing the whole tavern and his performances weren’t an immobile ordeal. And a performance is nothing without a fitting costume anyway. This would simply not do.

Hopefully, Geralt would have the same sense to bathe considering there's blood permeating through his matted hair. Of which is usually a roguish, outlandish display of white. Highlighting _usually_.

Getting undressed took a while since he had to pick out flowers and unwrap vines but soon enough, he was stark naked and settling into hot water. Jaskier had an abundance of supplies packed in his bag to make a worthwhile bath; such as soaps, salts, ointments, oils, petals. All life necessities really.

As he dunked under the water to wet his hair it occurred to him that he hadn’t so much as murmured ' _Toss a Coin to your Witcher’_ when he’d demanded payment downstairs. The famous song he’d spread in nearly every town they’d come across. Typically it had patrons bubbling with energy and excitement over the brilliance of Geralt. Furthermore, it made for a jovial way to ask people to part with their coin. Yet somehow today had been an exception.

No matter. That could be amended.

Soon enough he’d washed, dressed and danced his way downstairs in brighter spirits than before. After all, the night was young.

* * *

It had taken an argument, a promise to brush down Roach, and a pout to get Geralt to take a bath as well. It didn’t exactly do miracles considering Geralt flat out refused to let Jaskier send away his clothes (which had the stench of death radiating from them) to be washed. Honestly, the man was unbearable. All Jaskier was trying to do was ensure they had some standard of cleanliness. Was that really so much to ask? Think of all the germs over that armour. The _germs_. Geralt won’t get sick being his Witcher self but Jaskier, the very human travel companion at his side almost 24/7, might just catch one of those germs and fall ill.

That would honestly just be his luck wouldn't it?

At least he’s as fresh as a daisy, adorned in brand spanking new red, silk, garments and sturdy leather boots. Oh, how he’d missed normal clothes. The lavender scent from the soaps he’d used while bathing kissed softly at his skin and followed him wherever he went. Naturally, they ended up in the gloomiest corner of the tavern which Geralt instantly claimed and Jaskier secretly dubbed as the boring corner. It didn’t matter though since he knew he should feel some sense of entitlement or honour from just being able to sit at the same table as Geralt.

The tavern had supplied them with supper; a platter of roast meats, fresh crusty wastel bread, cheese, fruits and tarts. Jaskier had hearts growing in his eyes when it all got brought out. This was the sort of special treatment they deserved after an adventure... if only all villages and towns they saved were as grateful and rewarding as this one.

“So, where to next?” Jaskier mused, plopping a raspberry into his mouth. “I’m sure another great escapade is on the agenda. Personally, I vote we kick our feet up for a while and-“

“Temeria.”

“Right. Yes. Of course. No time for relaxation. Obviously. Might I ask why we’re heading for Temeria? I don’t know it just seems a bit…eh…well you know… out of the blue. They’re not exactly the most welcoming type there either.”

Geralt shrugged. “There’s someone there who I must speak with.”

Jaskier waggled his eyebrows. “Is this a special someone we’re visiting?” he teased and Geralt deadpanned him. “Alright keep your secrets. Though don’t act like this isn’t peculiar for you to be actively seeking out social interaction because we both know that only happens once in a blue moon.”

Geralt took another bite from his bread and chewed it slowly. “We’ll leave at dawn. Assuming you’ll be following me?”

“Accompanying is a nicer term.”

A boy barely taller than the table nervously approached them, staring at Geralt with wide, awestruck eyes. It was comical really.

“Uh, Mr Witcher-“ The boys started up, shuffling his feet.

“That’s Geralt of Rivia you’re speaking to!” Jaskier interrupted playfully.

The boy shone red. “R-Right! Forgive me. Mr Geralt of Rivia. You saved our town and I wanted to thank you. I’d be honoured to shake your hand.” He babbled, thrusting his hand out quickly.

Almost choking on a raspberry, he coughed and shoved half his face into his sleeve to hide a smirk threatening to break free. Geralt stared at the boy’s hand like it was a ploy or trap. Who knew the White Wolf had the capability of looking like a confused puppy? Was he even tilting his head? To be fair there are several people pretending not to be staring right now and it’s likely one of them will also ask for a handshake if Geralt complies.

After a moment of silence, Geralt put down the bread and began sucking each of his fingers clean of crumbs in the most exaggerated manner Jaskier had ever seen in his life. The ‘ _pops’_ were definitely deliberate. Something that was so obviously intended to be gross had no right looking so erotic in Jaskier’s eyes. ( _Wait, what?)._ The asshole didn’t even wipe his fingers dry before shaking the boy’s hand. To the boy’s credit, he held his ground while vigorously shaking Geralt’s hand and not in the slightest bit fazed by the blatant discourteous behaviour.

The handshake lasted a little too long and Geralt eventually grew uncomfortable. “uh…you’re welcome.”

The boy grinned, his toothy smile stretching so wide his ears rose a little. Then he spun around with twinkling eyes and darted back to his original table where a small group waited for him. Excited chattering winded up from them.

Geralt grunted and went back to his meal.

“That was incredibly churlish and obnoxious of you,” Jaskier chided disapprovingly.

“Can’t people just pay me and leave it at that?” Geralt huffed.

“You slay monsters and save villages I’m sorry but you’re just going to have to learn to live with the love. It’s not a bad thing. Your newfound fame, which is entirely my doing, by the way, is gaining you barrels of coin on a daily basis. I don’t see what the big fuss is about if a boy wants to shake your hand and show you some appreciation. You’re finally getting recognition for all the good you do! Don’t shy from veneration.” Jaskier shot him a devilish smirk. “Just so you know though, I liked you first.”

“Hm.”

Seconds later the boy was back at their table, accompanied by an older man.

“Witcher, pleasure it is to meet you. The names Voltur and I see you’ve already met my son Rikan.” The man greeted, squeezing the boy’s shoulder slightly. “I’ve a job for you if you’re interested?”

Geralt sighed exasperatedly. “Go on.”

“See those nymphs you disposed of were nasty blighters, but my problem lies with the monster roaming the roads leading in and out of town. Some kind of…reptilian fucker. Take care of it and I’ll make it worth your while.” Voltur proposed.

“How much are we talking?” Jaskier butted in.

Voltur shot him a dirty look then took out a bag of coin. “One hundred ducat. I don’t pay in advance, not that I doubt your capabilities, Witcher. Just prefer to pay when the job's done and dusted. We’ll show you where the beast is tomorrow n’everything.”

“Fine.” Geralt grumbled then shooed the man.

“I’ll see you here bright and early then.”

Rikan excitedly followed his father away. “I told you da! I told you Mr Geralt of Rivia would help.”

Jaskier picked at a piece of cheese in his fingers. “So…. that special someone in Temeria is going to have to wait.”

“The job is on the way out of town.”

“That it is.”

A barmaid took pity on his situation dealing with the absolute _ray of sunshine_ that was Geralt and hurried over to their corner with a tray of tankards. “Beers, gentlemen?”

“ _Please_.” He swiped a tankard and she offered one to Geralt who grimaced. “Oh, come on, live a little! We’re celebrating a great success here tonight so you will drink until your heart is content or your asleep on the table, I don’t care which. Bards orders.”

Geralt rose an eyebrow at him then took a tankard as well. “And it's necessary to get shitfaced when celebrating?”

“Precisely,” Jaskier confirmed wholeheartedly. He rose his tankard. “Cheers to you Witcher. The whole town sings praises for you this night.”

A grunt of acknowledgement came from Geralt who didn’t meet Jaskier’s toast, instead simply taking a large gulp from his tankard. One drink very quickly evolved into two drinks. Then three. Then he lost count. Perhaps drinking so much was a mistake.

A well-deserved mistake.

* * *

_“Oh, have you seen the Nymphs dance_

_Upon a Winters night?_

_And watched the gnomes and pixies prance_

_Whene’er the moon is bright?_

_Tis splendid fun to see them run_

_As soon as it grows light.-“_

Jaskier was in his element. Blending into the rich and lively ambience of the tavern by dancing through the crowd like smoke. His voice warbled on carefree and cheerful, bouncing off the walls as he soaked up the applause and laughter each octave of his song brought. Granted all this jostling of his body wasn’t going to end well taking his history with alcohol into consideration, but for now, he couldn’t care less!

_“-One evening a Witcher and I_

_Went out soon after ten;_

_The moon hung like a ball on high_

_Above the fairy glen,_

_And round and round upon the ground_

_Danced fays again and again-“_

Jaskier hopped up onto a chair, wobbling precariously before throwing his head back and continuing his grandiose performance. People clapped along to the tune.

_“-And there, at dawn, they leave behind_

_A ring of toadstools wee_

_Where they have danced you’ll always find_

_The marks for folks to s-_ SHIT- _“_

Just because the world evidently adores him, and possibly because he’s had a few too many, he lost his footing on the chair and went toppling backwards. Instinctively he cradled the lute to his chest, tangling the strings together as his fingers slipped. Bracing for impact on the wooden floorboards he squeezed his eyes shut.

Thankfully it never came.

A pair of strong arms caught him. With a breath of relief, he glanced upwards to meet no other than Geralt’s intense gaze…who’s amber eyes were sort of…blurring together.

Fuck. Oh, fuck indeed. What's the average alcohol tolerance for males? Because he’d drank way above it. And you know, Jaskier is proud of himself for recognising that.

Thrilled by this new adjustment he slung an arm over Geralt’s shoulder, making absolutely no effort to get down yet. “Everyone! Once again the Great White Wolf rescues those from certain doom!”

The tavern quickly erupted with eager cheers as if Geralt catching Jaskier was even remotely comparable to slaying nymphs. Distantly he knew he should be mildly horrified about being held bridal style in the middle of a damn tavern, but truth be told this wasn’t the worst position he’d ever been in. Actually, it was rather comfortable up here.

After the cheer inducing theatrics, he turned back towards his saviour. “Gods, you’re disgustingly gallant sometimes, did you know?”

“Hm.” Geralt grimaced, setting Jaskier back down on two feet. “You have all the grace of a one-legged horse.”

A bit disorientated after that whole ordeal, he absentmindedly latched a hand onto the other man’s armour. Mainly because now that he’d stopped prancing about the tavern and taken a second to allow the world to catch up with him, everything was frantically struggling to warp itself back into proportion making him sway ever so slightly. Unless the ground always rocked like that.

“A lovely picture you paint, as always- hang on was that a joke?”

“More of an insult.”

“That was totally a joke!”

Geralt sighed heavily. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“You know, I didn’t think you had it in you. Perhaps you’re not a lost cause after all.” Jaskier mused as he trotted after Geralt who’d apparently been heading towards the bar before he’d caught Jaskier mid-fall. Honestly, the man was like some kind of friggen… friggen knight in shining armour. Or at least it would be shining if he’d just let Jaskier send it away to be washed…

He knocked into several people on the way there, hollering apologies left, right and center, until they’d reached the bar and he could finally release the one hand attached to Geralt. Leaning over the countertop he considered what to order. They settled, boringly so, on more beers.

“How is it that you aren’t as…as…” He waved his hand searching for an appropriate word.

“Shitfaced?”

“Yes!” He exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide to exaggerate his point. “It’s because you possess some kind of blessed higher tolerance for alcohol, isn’t it? Because of your… your Witchery-do-da. Thing.”

Geralt barely sustained his ever-stoic expression. “Or because I’m not a fool like some.”

“Tsk.” He let his lips pull into a cheeky smile. “This fool _happens_ to rub chamomile under your-“

“Beers!” The bartender interrupted, slamming down two tankards before rushing off to serve other patrons. Despite the late hours the tavern was still bustling with life. They drank for some time enjoying each others company – or at least Jaskier was enjoying himself within Geralt’s company by babbling on about anything and everything until finally a blanket of hazy exhaustion fell on his shoulders and he slumped into a comfortable silence. A few people requested he play another song but Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure that he could. A sudden wave of nausea had started squeezing his insides. But _pshh_ he wasn’t a lightweight (right?) so he ignored it like any mature adult would do.

“Why did you sing that?”

Hm?

Jaskier lolled his head in Geralt’s general direction, seeing the other man staring at him strangely. _S_ _tarting a conversation, making eye contact, generally noticing Jaskier’s existence. Is Geralt ok? This must be a serious topic._ Jaskier was in no mindset for a serious topic so he slapped his cheeks to force himself to concentrate.

“Sing what?”

“The song about the…nymphs?” Geralt elaborated quietly.

_Oh! That song._

“In case it slipped your notice, I’m a bard. Preserving memories within lyrics... It’s what I _do_. Sometimes inspiration for a song takes days, months, years. Sometimes seconds. And I do believe we just spent the past week hunting fae- or nymphs or whatever you wish to call them which seems pretty significant to me. Besides, people loved it.”

Yes. He sees the irony in the fact he has no recollection of the past week yet he’s _‘preserving memories within lyrics’_. In full honesty, he had no idea where those particular lyrics came from…it all just sounded right when he sang it. Was that strange? Probably.

“Rusalki.” Geralt supplied, rubbing his stubble. “And I meant why do you sing so highly of them?”

That had Jaskier furrowing his eyebrows, scanning over the lyrics he’d sung earlier. Yes, Geralt was right he hadn’t sung a bad word about them. How could he? They weren’t bad creatures. That’s only what everyone believed, including himself at one point. In fact, despite what they’d told the villagers, the nymphs lived on in their territory still; Geralt hadn’t slain them. Just the one. The bad one.

Jaskier hummed. “These people already have reason enough to believe nymphs are horrid little creatures that need to be lynched. We both know that’s not quite true though, don’t we? I mean… it was just the one bad egg…that you dealt with accordingly. The world is… it’s a complete _shitstorm_ of opinions and nonsense so we shouldn’t generalise a whole species of creatures as wicked or villainous based on the actions of a few. I’d rather not add to the hardships they have to endure by composing a song that paints the wrong picture of them. Right?”

Geralt blinked at him with something akin to fondness. Unless that was just a trick of the light. “Hm.”

“You taught me that.” He snorted, letting his head fall onto one hand to rest there. “Respect and mercy…and decency…yada..yada…”

“Respect doesn’t make history.”

Jaskier stiffened and fixed Geralt with a glare. How very dare the man quote him. The plagiaristic, unoriginal bastard.

Ignoring the comment, he sniffed and looked elsewhere. “I suppose I really ought to thank you. After all, _you_ got me out of their den. Anyone else would have just left me behind and let that Nymph- uh - Nymph-salki have her wicked way with me.” He chuckled darkly. “I wouldn’t have remembered.”

“Is that something you think I’d do?” Geralt countered, mildly offended.

Jaskier snorted and gave him a playful shove. Geralt didn’t even rock on his stool. “Of course not. As I said, you can be disgustingly gallant when you choose to be. One of these days that’s going to get you stuck knee-deep in horseshit.”

“It already has.”

Jaskier opened his mouth and closed it a few times. What was that supposed to mean?

“Well, how might I repay you for saving my life? _Again_.” He demanded. Geralt scoffed and took a swing of his beer. “I’m serious! Fame, riches, glory? Whatever your heart so desires Geralt of Rivia I will find it and I will deliver it. Within reason. You know how persistent I can be. Let’s see here… I’ve already given you fame which in effect brings you riches…as for the glory well you achieve that all on your lonesome. So, what is one to gift you?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I want nothing.” He pushed his tankard away. “Except some damn peace. It’s getting late.”

Jaskier hiccupped and giggled. “Are you telling me it’s past my bedtime?”

“Don’t think I won’t hesitate to leave you behind tomorrow if you’re not awake.” Geralt warned without an ounce of a joke in his tone.

“Really Geralt you wouldn’t dare!” He exclaimed then backtracked because “Yes. Yes, you would dare. Fine! Fine! You tedious mope let's retire for the night!” he conceded dramatically, swirling around to get off the stool and taking one step forwards before stumbling helplessly sideways.

Geralt caught him effortlessly, clearly having been expecting that to happen. “Can you walk?”

“ _Can I walk_? He parroted like it was the most ridiculous question he’d ever been asked. “Of course I can walk, I just lost my balance there. Lead the way. Do we have rooms? I forgot to request rooms. Did you request rooms? I think we deserve rooms free of charge, don’t you?”

And no Jaskier couldn’t walk in a straight line. So Geralt half carried him upstairs to their designated rooms. What a saint. Getting up the stairs was a whole ordeal that Jaskier swore Geralt to secrecy about. It would tarnish his entire reputation if anybody else had witnessed!

“Where’s my lute?” Jaskier asked, hopping around his room trying to tug off his boot – crashing into the wall.

Geralt winced from where he was lingering in the doorway watching. Perhaps making sure Jaskier was alright and not about to drunkenly fall out the window or something else humiliatingly idiotic like that. Since when did he care this much anyway?

“On your back.”

Jaskier blindly reached behind and low and behold his lute was strapped to his back. How did it get there?! Magic.

“Oh, so it is!” he trilled, finally getting one boot free and deciding that getting the other boot off required far too much energy.

Tossing the lute onto the bed he collapsed rather unceremoniously beside it and with a content little sigh, melted into the furs. His head was spinning, it had to be. Something at the back of his mind buzzed like static trying to advise that remaining led on his back like this with a stomach rolling with nausea was generally _a bad idea_. Yet he disobediently stayed put, making a poor attempt to reach for his other boot by lifting his leg towards his chest without sitting up.

“Fuck sake...” Geralt grumbled, marching inside the room and pushing Jaskier’s leg back down from where it was almost kicking him in the chin. Promptly the Witcher dropped to his knees beside it. Jaskier’s neck whipped upwards so fast he heard it crack.

_What’s he doing? Why’s he by there? Since when has Geralt ever actively chosen to be this close to him? What in the ever-loving fuck-?_

Geralt, oblivious to bard’s internal crisis, proceeded to prop up Jaskier’s leg on his knee and begin diligently unfastening the buckles to the remaining boot. Oh. _Oh._ That makes great deal more sense than…well than any other reasons Geralt would be on his knees in front of Jaskier.

Ah.

A small squeak breached him as he silently cursed his unholy thoughts. Geralt spared him a mildly confused glance and it was all just too much for his weak, intoxicated mind, so he made his retreat by slamming his head back down on the mattress and staring up at the ceiling with burning cheeks. _Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Bad brain. Bad. Very bad. Say something. Anything-_

“I could brush down your horse.” He blurted out.

“What?”

_…Cursed unholy thoughts…_

“As a thank you.”

_…Very cursed unholy thoughts…_

“You already agreed to do that.”

Jaskier considered how outrageously ridiculous this would look if anybody came in. “How about I declare you as my favourite Witcher?”

“Do you happen to know any other Witcher’s?” Geralt shot back.

“No, I suppose not.” He frowned, picking at a button on his jacket. “Drats. Geralt why can’t you just be like everybody else and be happy if I bought you a…a…fucking thank you pastry. Everyone loves a thank you pastry!”

Geralt grumbled then shook his head. “I’m not entertaining this anymore.”

“So that’s a strong no on the thank you pastries?”

He felt the boot slide off his foot and watched it sail over his head, landing somewhere across the room with a dull _thud_. Geralt brushed off his hands then rose to begin walking out.

“Goodnight Jaskier.”

Trapped in a deadly state of sleepy, giddy bliss he rolled over to face the doorway. As he did so, a genius idea popped into his head. This idea wasn’t _just_ genius it was hilarious. Brilliant even. The most talented jester in all the lands would be impressed by such tomfoolery. It had to be done. Geralt’s face afterwards would be priceless. Therefore, how could he not go through with such an idea? It would frankly be a crime not to.

“I could…” He slurred drunkenly. “I could repay you with the Law of Surprise. That which I have…but do not know…etcetera, etcetera. That’s a popular one with you these days isn’t it?”

Geralt, who _clearly_ wasn’t listening anymore, nodded along like some sort of foolish, ignorant dolt and continued on his merry fucking way. Which was just god-damn appalling. Could he not see Jaskier’s joke? Could he not appreciate it for a mere second and let Jaskier bask in his own excellence? No of course not. How selfish. How rude. How obtuse. An unworthy audience for Jaskier’s jokes and songs and – _fuuUUuuck his stomach hurts._

About ten seconds later Geralt burst back into the room, eyes alarmingly wide and fingers clutching the doorframe so tight his knuckles popped white.

“Wait, don’t-!“

Jaskier threw up.

“…Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I know... pretty weird, right? Nymphs and whatnot. Just roll with it.
> 
> Jaskier's song in this chapter is actually a poem by Eugenie Thornton called 'The Fairy Ring'. I just changed a few words to better fit the story.
> 
> AND BEFORE I GET YELLED AT - no I don't know if this will be mpreg. It might or it might not be. I'm still kind of on the fence about the whole thing. We'll see what destiny decides. It is the Law of SURPRISE after all. (But I will update tags accordingly don't worry).
> 
> For now, we can all just live in the glorious aftermath of Jaskier's drunken mistake alongside Geralt who'll probably be in a state of 'When will you learn. When will you LEARN that your actions have consequences-?!' like that video of the Sonic kid.
> 
> So that'll be fun!
> 
> Also, season 2 isn't out until 2021 and this is my coping mechanism. Big ouch am I right?


	2. Garroter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, holy guacamole! Thank you to everyone who read chapter one!! Likewise, another big thank you to everyone who left kudos and such lovely comments! It kinda blew my mind (and intimidated me) just how many people read this let alone actually liked it. So again, thank you!
> 
> But alas, you may hate me now. The next three chapters will closely follow canon. Some bits will be word to word, some bits I've added in myself. Will I be changing what's canon? Up to where I've written...no? bar like...my story components. The script is still the same because it helps anchor everything (I think) - you get the gist. So sorry but we're chilling in Canonland for a few chapters.

The following morning Geralt barely murmured more than three words to Jaskier. One of those words sounding suspiciously more like an irritated ‘ _hm_ ’ than an actual ‘ _hello_ ’. This wasn’t strictly abnormal behaviour since Geralt is perhaps the most frustratingly aloof and misanthropic person he’s ever been graced with the good fortune of meeting. Yet bizarrely, it felt entirely out of character today.

To make matters worse a pounding headache greeted him the second he woke, curtesy of a hangover sent straight from death itself. He’d also discovered numerous bruises flourishing over his hips from where he’d bumped into tables last night while too inebriated to care – prompting a very lengthy vow to never drink to such an extent ever again. Mainly because the time between eating dinner and throwing up was a bit of a blur, an expanse of his drunken antics clouded by fog, but he _did_ have a jumble of alcohol-soaked memories to sift through providing him with a vague idea of what transpired. A vague idea was all he needed.

And they weren’t going to talk about any of it.

See…here’s the thing. Geralt isn’t a conversationalist on the best of days. Common knowledge states that it’s Jaskier’s job to be the loquacious one who fills the silences with endless commentary and one-sided discussion, that’s just how things roll. So, if he doesn’t feel like addressing last nights' events then it won’t happen, believe him. Which isn’t necessarily an issue in his books. There’s a distinct art in ignoring a problem until eventually, it just…goes away. If they could erase last night from history completely and go on like it never happened that would be perfect.

…Except it wasn’t perfect.

There’s no raillery between them today. Now that’s abnormal. Geralt often puts on a public persona to portray himself as this unapproachable tough guy who’d much rather live under a rock than socialise with any other living creature. However, deep down past all the prickly defences, the man _must_ secretly adore their unusual friendship. He had to. It’s just difficult to see behind the sturdy wall up between Geralt and anybody daring enough to try and get close to him. Luckily for them, Jaskier’s _extremely_ dedicated. A lot of time and effort went into picking away at that one-hundred-year-old brick wall – with a toothpick - and he’s made phenomenal progress in comparison to others!

This progress induced tender moments shared between them on rare occasions away from the heat of battle…little moments where If Jaskier squinted hard enough he could see Geralt as…well _Geralt_. The real Geralt. Not the one who put up a front because society ostracises him. The one who’ll relax on quiet evenings within Jaskier’s company, dozing off to the bards soft singing. The one who’s lips quirk upwards whenever Jaskier makes a complete fool of himself – obviously Jaskier’s compelled on these occurrences to return the gesture with a goofy grin double the size. The one who’ll share a drink with him, listen to his stories even while pretending not to be, and the one who surrendered his travelling cloak claiming Jaskier’s _‘teeth chattering would bring a Kikimora down on them’_. The sentiment was there.

All these moments swirled together into an affectionate warmth blossoming in the midst of his chest. If Geralt sporadically felt comfortable enough around him to let his guard down then there had to be a foundation of trust established between them, right?

He couldn’t help but feel he’s cracked (if not broken) that trust. 

There wasn’t any time to dwell on it, after all, Geralt promised to slay another monster today. They’d met with Voltur at an ungodly hour of the morning, being introduced to his friend Elian who’d be assisting them in locating the reptilian beast. Getting some fresh air did wonders for Jaskier who’d seriously contemplated being tragically bed-ridden to fight his crash of sobriety – but alas, at risk of being deserted by his Witcher he had more than enough motivation to roll out of bed.

Upon arriving at their destination, Geralt very firmly ordered Jaskier to _watch Roach_ before skulking off into the shrubbery. Bitterly he recounted that ‘ _Watch_ ’, ‘ _Roach_ ’, and ‘ _Hm_ ’, were the three monotonous words the Witcher had spared him today. One of those barely even counted as a word - more of an indistinct sound of dissatisfaction that had somehow wormed its way to the front of Geralt’s frustratingly reserved vocabulary. 

So here he sat on a moderately comfortable rock, doing what he does best at times of high emotion (which in this case consists of an unfortunate mixture of embarrassment, worry and mild self-loathing) by gently strumming his lute to compose a song. A distraction that has never once failed him.

_“I’m weak, love, and I am wanting_

_If this is the path I must trudge_

_I’ll welcome my sentence_

_Give to you my penance_

_Gorgeous garrotter, jury and judge-“_

He paused, scrunching up his nose at the lyric. “Lovely garrotter…gorgeous garro…” it wasn’t really working, and from his experience, the best way to improve something was through feedback. “Which do you prefer? ‘ _Lovely_ ’? ‘ _Gorgeous_ ’? is the whole metaphor landing, or is it too cerebral?” 

Predictably, Voltur and Elian ignored him – wasn’t that just becoming a running theme for today? For goodness sake, it’s like trying to get blood from a stone with some people! Ah well, what would they know about songwriting anyway? From observation Voltur likely worked as a butcher, if the dry blood caked over his white apron was anything to go by. As for Elian, the alderman, well, he didn’t seem very talkative anyway, nor did he seem to want to be here. At first, Jaskier pegged that on nerves triggered from being close to a monster, but over time he’d begun questioning the stability of Voltur and Elian’s friendship entirely.

Unfazed by their lack of enthusiasm and engagement, he went back to testing tenors, going back and forth between _lovely_ and _gorgeous_. Neither lyric really…resonated with him. 

A few seconds later the village men ran out of patience. They seriously needed to loosen up a little, at the very least sit back and relax. Geralt will return, he always returns even if it takes him the whole night.

“It’s been an hour. Let’s get on before the beast gets hungry again.” Voltur decided, craning his neck as if that would magically help him spot Geralt.

“But we made a deal.” Elian protested meekly.

“We made a deal with a livin’ Witcher. No sense in hangin’ around to pay a dead one.” He countered flippantly, then had the absolute audacity to start looting Geralt’s horse.

 _‘Watch Roach. Watch Roach. Watch Roach’_. At least seventy alarm bells began blaring simultaneously in his mind. Oh, sweet sonnets and sestinas he couldn’t fuck up the one job Geralt had given him-

“Bollocks.” He swore and abandoned his lute, scampering off the rock and almost slipping on the uneven terrain. “Oi! No. No, no, no! No! You stop- stop that, or I – I’ll, uh…” 

Did every bard have to endure this kind of situational stress when following around their muse? Somehow, he’s failing at watching a damn horse and as a result, facing off two rather menacing looking gentlemen with only his wits for backup. At times like this, he finds himself wishing he possessed _some_ intimidating qualities. 

“Or you’ll what?” Voltur challenged, mildly amused by Jaskier’s attempt to stop them. The horse packs were slung over Elian’s shoulder, the shorter man quietly grimacing. “Sing us to death?”

 _Oh_. So that’s how this is going to be. Alright then. Voltur is a bully. A downright bully and Jaskier should have smelt that from a mile away. Even Elian, the one who clearly didn’t feel comfortable committing theft, remained silent as Voltur practically forced him into acting as the pack mule carrying all their stolen goods. What a sneaky puppet master. A bully of a puppet master. 

At a complete loss for words he gawped, frantically floundering to find a suitable threat to toss back. This was rapidly spiralling south. Speaking as a lover not a fighter, Jaskier would really, _really_ prefer an outcome that didn’t involve things getting physical as well as one that spared Geralt from being robbed - If at all possible. The problem is he probably wouldn’t survive a slap to the face from one of these men therefore his most viable option is to stall until Geralt inevitably returns and kicks their asses. A flawless plan if any.

“Perhaps you did not hear the man.” A foreign voice said, announcing the presence of a stranger who strode past Jaskier – making him nearly jump out his boots in surprise. A man approaching his elderly years judging by the receding grey hair, dressed in a light brown gambeson that had no visible padding to the sleeves but dark brown cuffs to protect the wrists. Interestingly the leather armour had small bumps rippling across it, shimmering between green and mustard yellow in the sunlight, similar to scales of a snake.

“Yeah! Perhaps you didn’t…”He trailed off, placing a hand on his hip. “Sorry, who are you?”

Another two strangers filtered into the clearing, both women this time, one taking a stand behind the man and the other stalking behind Voltur like a panther eying up its prey. Jaskier needed to do a double-take. These women were warriors, but they weren’t just _any_ warriors they were Zerrikanian warriors. Wise enough to not be star-struck to the point where his judgement became clouded, he took a precautionary step away. This intervention…while working in his favour seemed a tad too convenient to come without a catch.

Voltur wasn’t threatened by the newcomers, squaring his shoulders. “Move along old man.”

With a small but exasperated sigh, the man kept his collected composure. “Do as the bard asks or I’ll be forced to draw my weapons.”

“What weapons?” Voltur questioned, scanning the stranger who didn’t seem to be armed. Jaskier kept his mouth shut about the two Zerrikanian’s being incredibly well-armed with intricately designed long swords sheathed on their backs. “I see no steel ‘ere.”

Voltur, an utter buffoon, must have woken up today looking for a fight. He stepped forward and gave the stranger a firm shove, the second he did so the Zerrikanian warrior kicked him in the shin and forced him to his knees, giving him half a second to cry out before snapping his neck. A haunting squelch and crunch sounded as the bone broke, signifying the end of Voltur’s life.

Jaskier choked on a gasp, promptly swirling around in alarm to shield his eyes. What the _fuck_. She just- she just killed him! Murdered is a more appropriate term. Voltur was acting like a downright scoundrel but that wasn’t nearly enough justification to kill him. Was it? Did he really deserve that? He had a life and a son- _oh gods_! He’s got a son! Rikan! The boy who’d traumatised Geralt into a handshake yesterday. Now the child is potentially fatherless or even worse… orphaned… 

On top of the swarm of nerves eating away at his insides, he’s now dealing with the additional baggage of guilt that only grew heavier the more he thought on Rikan. He could only cowardly hope Elian would break the news to the poor child and his family – that is if these brutal newcomers permitted his survival.

“Steel won’t be necessary.” She jeered over Voltur’s corpse. 

Remind Jaskier not to get on the wrong side of her…she didn’t even draw her weapon to take down Voltur. In a feeble attempt to steady his racing heartbeat he pressed a hand against his chest, chancing a glance at Voltur and cringing at the odd angle of his neck. Well...there’s definitely no hope of healing that one. 

To make the situation all the more delightful, a bloody, severed head flew out from the shrubbery, bouncing along the ground like a ball until it slowed in a cloud of dust at their feet. He had absolutely no idea what species the head belonged to without his Walking Monster Encyclopaedia (Geralt), but ‘reptilian fucker’ as Voltur titled it yesterday fit well enough. In a messed-up sort of way, relief soured through him upon seeing the head. If it’s now spontaneously raining monster heads, then Geralt couldn’t be too far away. 

On cue, Geralt walked out from behind the rocks making a very grand entrance for himself (and he has the gall to claim Jaskier is the dramatic one!). In spite of the thorn currently damaging their customary camaraderie, Jaskier scanned Geralt’s muscular frame up and down in search of injuries – the Witcher barely ever suffered any but Jaskier became antsy if he didn’t check. Only after being satisfied with his inspection did he catch Geralt’s eyes darting away. Momentarily he wondered whether the Witcher had done the same. That thought vanished as Geralt spotted Elian, who stood as still as a statue clutching the black satchels looted from Roach, caught entirely red-handed. Jaskier would much rather be in Voltur's shoes than Elian’s right now.

“I believe those are mine.” Geralt drawled out in a low, dangerous tone. Elian wordlessly dumped the satchels and tossed over a bag of coin before taking his leave – scared for his life. Quite rightly.

“Geralt, they- with the-“ He stammered, half in shock about how quickly everything had escalated. Nothing like a good old-fashioned murder to get the blood pumping in the morning! “This woman just killed a man with her bare hands for trying to steal your horse!” 

Geralt made a point of staring down a fleeing Elian before acknowledging the rest of them. Whether or not he was bothered by the presence of the newcomers, he didn’t show it. 

“Maybe she’ll make a better travel companion, then.” Geralt replied dryly. 

_Ouch._

“Wha-“ The sharp protest died on the tip of his tongue upon seeing the acute twist of Geralt’s features, making him look outright pettish. That's the most Geralt's said to him in one go today. While it’s fairly common for those sorts of jabs to be made they’re usually…a little more light-hearted? Unless he’s reading too much into this because of last night. Swallowing down the rising trepidation on the matter he turned towards the newcomers, still curious about them. “Uh, I’m sorry, who are you, exactly?” 

The man seemed happy enough to have the spotlight back on him, approaching Geralt with a chest puffed out with pride. “I am Borch Three Jackdaws. These are my companions, Téa and Véa. I’ve been looking for you, Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier inwardly groaned because _here we go again_.

* * *

Despite initially planning on departing for Temeria after slaying the beast, they decided to accompany Borch back into town like a pair of Good Samaritans. The man did save Geralt’s belongings so the very least they could do was hear him out. 

Just about everyone and their mother craved Geralt’s attention these days. It’s actually becoming vaguely irksome being constantly side-tracked and having little to no time to take a break or outspan. Granted, their ever-busy schedule is partially Jaskier’s fault but that’s beside the point. For once it would be nice to have a day off. But no…there’s always a monster that somebody needs Geralt to slay. Just take this week, first, it’s the nymphs, then it’s that reptilian creature, and now it’s whatever Borch desires – taking an educated guess it’ll probably be something along the lines of more monster hunting. Don’t get Jaskier wrong, he loves a good monster hunt as much as the next aspiring bard pursuing decent song content, but they were far more enjoyable when he and Geralt were on moderately good terms. Which they potentially weren’t. Hard to say.

It didn't take long for Jaskier to crack. He opted to at least _try_ and fix things for the sake of them being courteous in the company of others. In essence that made him the bigger person. Kind of. All he really did was (grudgingly) attempt to clear the air by catching Geralt a few minutes before they made the trek back into town with Borch. It went…well….it went roughly like this…

“Geralt, I uh…a word, please?” He'd asked.

“Later.”

"...See I really must protest because we may or may not be gifted with the privilege of privacy later and the matter I wish to discuss with you-"

"Save it, Jaskier." Geralt spoke brusquely without so much as looking at him, yanking the straps of the saddlebags to secure them back where they belonged (with just a tad more force than strictly necessary), proceeding to swiftly mount Roach to ride ahead and that was that.

So…not great.

The thing is…the _thing_ is… Jaskier isn’t sure how to restore order to this mess he finds himself in. There are…intricacies and variables unaccounted for due to memory lapses (and not just the ones caused by alcohol) which complicate things. But the problem…the big fat problem, the elephant in the room suffocating him with every passing second…came down to a joke. Albeit a rather stupid joke.

Even thinking about _the_ joke made part of him want to shrivel up and die because _fuck_. All the fucks. How could he have been so incredibly daft as to make a joke like that to Geralt? To _Geralt_.

But at the end of the day, it was just a joke. A drunken joke. A nonsensical shenanigan. Something they’re bound to look back on and laugh at – or at least he would. So…everything’s fine aside from the warranted awkwardness. Geralt can’t truly hate him over a joke. It’s not like Jaskier _actually_ called upon some dubious, destiny tethered law and screwed them over for all of eternity.

…right?

Of course, he didn’t! The mere implication of him doing so is…well, it’s preposterous. Completely barmy. Geralt’s just pissed off because he maintains a severely limited sense of humour that prohibits him from finding jaskier’s wisecracks amusing.

…and potentially because the joke must’ve felt like Jaskier rubbing salt on an open wound. A wound which has been open ever since Princess Pavetta’s betrothal party. Yes, that’s got to be the reason why Geralt’s all crabby today.

“Well, at least _I_ don’t have a Child Surprise I’m turning a blind eye to.” He grumbled under his breath while sulking over his predicament.

They arrived at the tavern just as it reached midday – an establishment Jaskier no longer particularly liked due to some rather bothersome memories attached to it. From the outside it appeared lively and crowded, passionate voices roaring with chatter could be heard through the hardwood walls, rising in volume as somebody opened the door to depart giving them a quick preview of inside. As soon as they pushed their way in the potent stench of stale ale, musk and smoke almost overwhelmed him. 

Oh - _bollocks_. Curse his inability to fight a hangover. His stomach is…well, it’s a little delicate, to say the least.

“This is a first for me, and that’s saying something. I’ve very few firsts left. But to dine with _the_ Geralt of Rivia...” Borch marvelled. Dare he claim this man is trying to butter Geralt up? A classic move when hiring a Witcher. Jaskier kindly refrained from mentioning that Geralt’s table manners are about as good as a dog's, so Borch shouldn’t accumulate any high expectations. One time (while covered in selkiemore guts) he spat out a whole mouthful of beer over some poor, unassuming gentleman’s boots – truly revolting! And it’s not like Jaskier hasn’t tried schooling _some_ civilised behaviour into him. Because he has. Relentlessly. At this point, he’s convinced Geralt only acts discourteously to wind him up. “Your adventures are legend.”

“You're welcome,” Jaskier said while signalling the innkeeper, an extremely busy man behind the bar who’d still managed to greet them with a wave. Gods …he probably recognised them from last night. “Est, Est. Small.” He ordered.

“I suppose you want me to tell you why I’ve sought out such an accomplished monster hunter.” Borch speculated as they strolled between the rows of wooden tables, finding a free one at the very end beside the fireplace. Jaskier might have made some sort of quip about an explanation being wonderfully helpful, but temporarily faltered as his stomach began lurching.

Okay. Worrisome.

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account.” Geralt grunted back, taking a seat. “I just want food.”

Reluctant to reveal his predicament to the rest of the group he retreated over to the crackling fire, partly to warm his icy fingers and party to try to coax back the sudden queasiness. Heaving up his dinner in front of Geralt last night had been bad enough, he’d rather not have history repeat itself in front of almost total strangers. He’d skipped out on breakfast this morning which in hindsight was a wise decision. 

Borch’s brittle voice echoed behind him. “One of everything you have. And keep the ale coming!”

“On its way!” The innkeeper called back.

The group sat themselves down, continuing on their conversation without waiting for Jaskier to join them. No matter he could still hear from here. 

“The second one is this, a short while ago a green dragon landed across the border in King Niedamir’s mountains. I know what you’re thinking. Impossible, dragons are so rare. But it’s true. Locals spotted it and went after it in search of treasure. Of course, they succeeded only in wounding the creature and angering it so righteously that it swooped down from its lair and set half the hillside ablaze. Dead sheep, everywhere.” 

Halfway through Borch’s narrative, Jaskier managed to slip onto a seat beside Geralt, swallowing repeatedly and pegging his nausea on the distinct lack of fresh air in here since he’d been positively perky outside earlier during the monster hunt. Okay, maybe not perky, more like grudgingly awake.

Another battle awaits him on the table: the wine he’d ordered.

Regret is such a bitter taste. And smell _\- bloody_ _hell._ How in the world did alcohol smell intoxicating to him last night? His stomach is curling in uncomfortable opposition over a measly tankard of wine right now! There’s no way he’s going to be able to drink it without spewing it back up over their lovely company. Very tactfully covering up the absolute plight he found himself in, he offered up the wine to one of the Zerrikanian warriors (the one who he believes goes by Véa). Surprisingly she accepted it.

Téa and Véa certainly were intriguing. Jaskier finds he often becomes easily attached – a bad habit he’s never grown out of - to intriguing individuals so it’s really not surprising that he’s completely enamoured by these two women within just an hour of knowing them. They’re Zerrikanian Warriors for crying out loud! Think of the songs Jaskier could compose of them! The legendary tales of their conquests recorded in lyrics tailored by him would be utterly breathtaking. Glorious. Worthy of being preformed in courts, festivals, banquets, weddings and more! Naturally, he’s going to engage in conversation with them, if not because they’re attractive then because socialising would serve as a good distraction from his…hangover situation.

“You have the most incredible neck. It’s like a…a sexy goose.” He blurted out the first thing that came to mind as a way of starting conversation. The two women stared at him like he’d grown a second head and Geralt made a noise of annoyance beside him. “G-Guzzling.”

_Stop talking._

Oh, cut him some slack! He’s not at the top of his game today. Besides, a goose is symbolic of attributes such as bravery and vigilance and...and they were probably unaware of all that. At least he didn’t compare them to something more insulting such as a skunk then he’d be in real trouble, wouldn’t he?

“Now, the King is in a bind. He’s set to marry the princess of his rival kingdom, Malleore, which means it’s bad timing to have a murderous pest lurking about in the mountains. He’s commissioned a hunt to kill it. Four teams have signed on. The winner gets the dragon treasure hoard plus the title of lord over one of his new vassal states. That is… if he survives.”

Murderous pests…a hunt…teams…oh yes, Jaskier could see exactly where this was going….

“What does this have to do with me?” Geralt, the _‘accomplished monster hunter’_ , asked.

Borch brought his hands to his chest earnestly. “I want you to join my team.”

_Called it._

* * *

Food arrived in short time (along with a multitude of alcoholic beverages that Jaskier gave a serious case of the stink eye) and Geralt took to eating his pie in sullen silence while Borch waffled on about this dragon hunt. Thus far, his attempts to convince the Witcher have been rather futile. 

Remarkably Jaskier found a saving grace in ordering the largest tankard of water possible which helped subside the fluctuating nausea a great deal. Small sips were key. Though he still didn’t touch his pie, wordlessly sliding the plate over to Geralt - not wanting to push his luck. Said luck didn’t stretch too far when he became clammy, forced to remove his doublet and sling it over the back of his chair. None of that managed to put a dampener on his mood.

“I can hear it now, a tale of two Zerrikanians and their valiant poet lover. Oh! We’re so doing this. We’re in.” Jaskier declared brightly. Without an appetite to sate him he had nothing better to do than continue his shameless flirting. 

Alright…maybe… _maybe_ it's derived from pettiness rather than attraction. That’s not to say he’s unattracted to these two terrifying women, because he very much is attracted to them and will forever be a shameless flirt until the day he’s put six feet under. But right now, it’s more on account of… pettiness stemmed from something Geralt said. Maybe a tiny…very small…probably insignificant part of him took to heart the whole ‘ _better travel companion_ ’ thing. Maybe there’s a chance he’s a tinsy-winsy bit caught up on that.

Maybe.

But ah…so what? So what if Jaskier smirked at every glare Geralt fixed him with for trying to woo Téa and Véa. So what if he had to bite his lip to restrain himself from poking out his tongue in defiant retaliation. So what if it brought him a great deal of satisfaction provoking reactions from the Witcher who evidently couldn’t play nice today. So… _what_.

Aside from the almost sarcastic flirting on his part, they were here to talk business.

“You’ve wasted your breath, Borch. I don’t kill dragons. Take my advice. No treasure is worth dying for.” Geralt concluded eventually, having wolfed down both pies.

“Depends on the treasure.” Borch countered, eyes falling downcast. Geralt cocked his head. “What I need is a new adventure. One final first before I’m too old to do anything but die.”

“You think killing a dragon will bring you that?”

“All I know is there’s one path up the mountain, and it’s overrun with monsters. With you on my team, dear Witcher, we’ll be unstoppable.”

Jaskier shook his head in pity, covering up the action by taking a sip of his water. Poor Borch never stood a chance. Geralt, while a monster hunter, does have a moral code of sorts; he remains impartial to contracts that target beings that aren’t harming anyone. Especially intelligent, sentient beings. Give or take. Though in this case, it’s likely because the whole adventure is setting up to be a wild goose chase. There isn’t _actually_ a dragon up on that mountain. Dragons don’t exist. Even if there were a dragon then Geralt’s smart enough to not go head to head with one. It’s a fool’s errand, surely?

A commotion over by the bar disrupted his thoughts, a dwarf stood on a stool throwing money at the innkeeper. “Somebody get me a fucking drink! Barman!”

Borch turned on his seat towards the noise. “Those dwarfs will be part of the hunt.”

“Geralt could handle them in his sleep.” He commented, still thinking this was pointless. Like somebody flicked a switch another dwarf ran and jumped up on the bar, grabbing the innkeeper by the apron and yelling in his face about their drinks. Well…didn't they look positively delightful. “…or maybe a little bit awake.”

“Then there are the Reavers.” Téa continued, gesturing to a table of scraggly looking men, one of whom sat glaring back at them with a woman on his lap, the material of her dress riding dangerously high under his rough hand.

“Have you heard of them, Witcher?”

“Yes. And the answer is no.”

Borch leaned over the table with intent. “You feel it just the same as me…that hole inside you. That itch that can’t be scratched that burns your brain, keeps you awake at night. Come with me. I’ll show you what you’re missing.”

“What am I missing?” Geralt asked with genuine interest, eyebrows arching downwards slightly. 

“Sorry to interrupt this lovely moment…” He jumped in quickly. “That’s only three. Where’s the…what’s the fourth team?”

“Them.” Borch pointed towards the doorway.

Right on cue, a couple walked in; a knight holding his helmet and- 

Wait.

No.

How-?

Why is _she_ here?!

Yennefer of Vengerburg in all her terrifying glory came striding in beside the knight, barely appearing a day older than the last time they met. Today she wore a dull leaden blue coat with grey fur cuffs, perfect for travelling. Almost like a magnetic force connected both her and Geralt, she instantly spotted their table. 

Something in his chest constricted painfully and plummeted to the pit of his stomach. Why did he have to ask? They might have missed Yennefer completely if he’d just kept his mouth shut! Alright, the chances of that were slim but one could still hope.

“Oh!” He let out a nervous laugh. “Ooh-hoo-hoo! Oh, no, no, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Thank you so much. It’s been very nice. Thank you for the wine and the pies, but as the man said, we really can’t get involved.” He patted Geralt on the shoulder, forgetting their previous deadlock. “Geralt, shall we?”

“I’m in.” Geralt decided, never breaking eye contact with Yennefer as if she had him under some kind of spell. Had he even heard Jaskier? 

“Mother of…” he cursed quietly and without thinking, took a swing from one of the unclaimed wines on the table that had come with their meals.

“The hunt begins at sunrise.” 

Now it’s not fair to place blame…Borch couldn’t have known about Yennefer and Geralt’s dalliance, could he? Dalliance was putting it a little lightly. But some unruly part of Jaskier still glared full force at the man because somehow this was entirely his fault. If he’d have just found another Witcher – _any_ other Witcher – then they wouldn’t be condemned to walking up a mountain alongside the she-devil herself. So thank you for that _Borch_.

“What about Temeria?” Jaskier asked in one last feeble attempt to put a stop to this. “You were…you said you were going to meet somebody there. That sounded important, shouldn’t we focus our efforts on that?”

“After.”

He curled his fingers against the wooden table. This would only end in disaster. Geralt and Yennefer maintained a turbulent relationship – explosive even, which meant anybody foolish enough to stand in range during the blast consequently got hurt. When it wasn’t rapid-fire arguments it was a lustful storm stripping them down to doting teenagers. For crying out loud they’ve not stopped having eye sex since she walked in!

_Great. Now he’s feeling sick for an entirely different reason._

Wait…no…that’s… _no_. Gonna be- definitely _not_ a different reason – he’s actually gonna be-

“Excuse me-”

Nearly falling out his seat he frantically scrambled up and raced for the exit, trying to mentally map the shortest route through the sea of sweaty bodies. Somebody called his name, though he didn’t much care as to who, far too preoccupied dealing with the bile rising in his throat. Unapologetically he bumped into people, clearing a path until by some miracle he burst out the tavern onto the street, letting the door slam shut behind him.

He managed to take an impressive three steps before buckling over and puking up water (and that tiny bit of wine he’d tried to stomach – a horrible decision apparently).

_Fucking hangovers._

* * *

Once he stopped dry heaving outside the tavern, he wiped his chin on the back of his hand, picked up his dignity and marched away from all the concerned spectators who’d seen the degrading display. He hid where they hitched Roach, slumping down against the rickety fence. Perhaps he should go back inside but he couldn't bear to face the frowsty air in there again for at least another hour. Thankfully he'd remembered to grab his lute on the way out.

 _Fine._ He conceded to his body’s self-punishment, hitting his head against the timber post. _Overindulgence is ill-advised. Message received loud and clear. No more alcohol. Ever._

Why was he being tortured so? All he wanted was a sip of wine. To take away a man’s earthly pleasure- or at the very least prohibit him from drinking it unless he wishes to vomit… It’s woefully wrongful, he’s sure of that much. A damn travesty.

A very small dwindling voice at the back of his mind attempted to raise a nervous, half-hearted concern that this felt different – wrong beyond the explanation of a hangover. Stubborn as ever he buried that concern under his resentment for the coming journey. 

Yennefer. Of course, it had to be Yennefer. That’s just Jaskier’s luck. Perhaps he should talk to Geralt about last night, lest he wants to be ignored completely for the whole trip. After all, Yennefer, whether she intends to or not, always manages to hog Geralt’s attention primarily for herself. It’s almost although when they’re together they tune out the rest of the world. And it bothered him. It bothered him more than he let on.

Therefore, his options came down to this: somehow make amends with Geralt and gain a fifth of his attention, or don’t make amends and have nought. Neither of those were really ideal. Plus, he doesn’t know how to make amends when he doesn’t know where he and Geralt currently stand. Yes, he made a mistake last night. Yes, Geralt is clearly pissed about it. No, neither of them wanted to talk about it. And no, that wasn’t helping anything. 

This was pathetic. If birds could sing and fly still, then why couldn’t everything just resume like normal between them? Why was that so hard? Friends have misunderstandings all the time! That’s what they were, right? Friends. Geralt was more than just his muse.

And there it is, the stumbling block in this situation; friendship. Oh, weren’t friendships all so higgledy-piggledy with their delicate structures that fracture (or change) so very easily when tampered with? Jaskier isn’t exactly short on friends, there’s a wide array of people who’d welcome him with open arms. However, there’s only a select handful who he genuinely enjoys the company of. And guess who makes the top of that list? Geralt’s reign hasn’t been usurped for…gods for over ten years now. As shocking as that sounds.

Some people simply couldn’t understand it, why he’d willingly follow around an alleged ‘inhuman beast’. Even more speculated he’d been forced into it, too short-sighted to see that Jaskier voluntarily participated in the adventures. Of course, then he wrote the songs, spilt ink in citing the magnanimity of Geralt and the profound interdependence that had become of their friendship. And it _worked_. People looked at Geralt differently, treated him differently, hell they even spoke to him differently. All because he’d fall- _befriended_ a Witcher when nobody else had the balls to.

That’s why their friendship held superiority above others. It was too precious to be ruined over a drunken mistake. To precious indeed but how did one stabilise a rickety friendship? With a _Witcher_ who on a regular basis tried making it abundantly clear that they weren’t friends when quite clearly they were. What could Jaskier even say? ‘Sorry I made a joke about binding us together by destiny’? 

_What is it about thanking or apologising to a Witcher that's so fucking impossible?!_

Perhaps he’s overthinking it. Everything might be fine; all this worrying could simply be stimulated by his brain conducting a series of cognitive distortions forcing him to drastically magnify their exchange from last night and jump to a conclusion over Geralt’s reaction when really Geralt might not even be bothered. Furthermore, he’s not certain Geralt heard what he said – or remembers for that matter. Unfortunately, if that were the case, then why was Geralt acting like Jaskier spat in his pie? 

He’d be ruminating over _maybe’s_ and _what if’s_ forever if he kept on like this. 

With a groan, he lolled his head towards Roach. “What do you think?” Roach blinked at him. “Yeah, you’re right I’m overthinking it.” He muttered, picking at the clumps of weeds squirming around the base of the fence post.

A flash of red invaded his vision, a weight dropped over his head and everything abruptly went dark. With an alarmed yelp he flailed, successfully flinging the weight from his head and sending it flying a few feet away to land in a pitiful bundle. It took a second before he properly identified the fiendish material to be his doublet; the very one he’d forgotten to grab during his hast to vacate the tavern. Bewildered he glanced up to see Geralt nearing Roach, looking marginally pleased with himself.

“Was that really necessary?” he drawled, reaching for his doublet and brushing the dirt from it. For goodness sake, he’s going to end up with no clean clothes at this rate.

“Your reflexes leave much to be desired.” Geralt replied, giving Roach an affectionate pat.

Something burst in his chest past the worry, clouding it with delirious, misguided hope. Were things okay now? Maybe Geralt just woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and Jaskier had been reading too much into things. Sounds plausible. 

A smile flickered on his lips. “My, my, so the White Wolf does care.”

Geralt shrugged nonchalantly. “Or I just don’t want to endure your bellyaching because you forgot it and froze.”

“ _Bellyaching_?! I do no such thing!” He objected immediately, scrambling to his feet with newfound confidence. “Admit it, you care.” He teased, easing his arms into the sleeves of the doublet. 

“Hm.” Geralt paused, hesitantly studying him. “You were sick.”

A statement, not a question. Fuck. It often slips his mind that the Witcher mutation heightens all of Geralt’s senses, including sense of smell, meaning he’d probably known that within five seconds of leaving the tavern. Even if the only incriminating evidence was a puddle of watery vomit permeating into the dirt.

“An unfortunate product of all that celebrating last night.” He replied smoothly, leaning his weight against the fence. “Thank you for returning this, I fear I might have actually fallen sick without it. Very considerate of you. I’m almost touched.”

Geralt's face darkened. “Don’t thank me.”

And just like that, everything definitely wasn’t okay. 

A flurry of suppressed memories burst through the breaches protecting the front of his mind, hitting him all at once.

_‘I suppose I really ought to thank you.’_

_‘How might I repay you-?’_

_‘-my favourite Witcher?’_

_‘-Everyone loves a thank you pastry!’_

_‘I could repay you with the Law of Su-“_

Jaskier shook his head, adamant on cutting off the disjointed memories and disposing of them the same way he would song lyrics he didn’t approve of; tearing out the page, crumpling it up and lobbing it as far away as possible. The memories flew straight back into their cage in the furthest corner of his mind, banished there to think about the utter disorder they’d left for Jaskier to clean up.

“Right.” He managed to say, mouth running dry. 

“The hunt will last a few days.” 

“Yes, I’ve already packed my things.” He stated proudly, gesturing to his lute case. 

Geralt looked away. “The path up the mountain won’t be kind. It might be in your best interest to stay-“

“Best interest to… _what_?” He interjected curtly. “Stay here and twiddle my thumbs while you go gallivanting off to slay a dragon? Oh, ho, ho, ho. Now I _know_ you weren’t about to suggest that. You’d be sorely mistaken to think I’d willingly sit this out. Sorely mistaken indeed.”

“Jaskier-“

“Ah-ah, stop your fruitless protests. I’m going to climb all the way to the top of this perilous mountain with or without your permission.” He promptly smiled, albeit a tad strained. “Oh, don’t look so put out, I might begin to suspect you’re trying to be rid of me.” He joked lightly, testing the severity of the waters if anything.

“Do what you will, Jaskier, just don’t come crying to me when you break a damn nail.” Geralt replied gruffly, feigning indifference, before walking away with hunched shoulders.

A beat of silence passed.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry I didn’t quite catch that.” He muttered bitterly, crossing his arms. “See I think what you were trying to say was _‘no Jaskier. No, I’m not trying to be rid of you Jaskier. You’re my best friend in the whole wide world Jaskier why would I ever want to be rid of you Jaskier?’_ but I couldn’t hear it over all your fucking bullshit. Break a nail? I’ll break a nail in a minute alright. Asshole.” He kicked up a cloud of dirt in the direction Geralt had gone.

It probably would be sensible to follow Geralt’s intended advice and sit this out, given that this quest will without a shadow of a doubt be an absolute shitshow. But if he remains here then his position will be superseded by Yennefer – if it hasn’t been already – and Jaskier isn’t inclined to go down without a fight. She acts like a magpie, swooping in and stealing the treasure of Geralt’s attention – a wicked crook disguised as the innocent and sweet. A fairer sex they say, well, Jaskier sees past her deceiving looks and straight into her questionable personality and _that_ leaves much to be desired.

Roach snorted.

He shot a glare at the horse. “ _What_?”

* * *

Bright and early the next day Jaskier managed to get some breakfast down him while creating a lengthy mental list of things he most hates (including Yennefer) before leaving town with his team of dragon hunters. Yes, that’s something he’s legitimately part of now. Well…he’s more so an honorary member tagging along but let’s ignore the finer details. In all honesty, he’s truly gobsmacked that they’ve gone from slaying nymphs to hunting a dragon in the time span of two days; it’s quite a substantial jump in his humble opinion. 

From afar the mountain fashioned a bold silhouette against the clear blue sky, like a jagged, green camel hump or perhaps a great beast that led down and simply never got up again. It was already painfully obvious it would be a challenge to hike up to the summit. By the mercy of the gods he no longer had a tenacious hangover hindering him anymore – that would have made the whole journey insanely more difficult. 

Despite the simmering tension between himself and Geralt, they still remained joined at the hip – this wasn’t necessarily indicative towards any vast improvements in their relationship and rather just a common display of Geralt tolerating his clingy presence. Which is mighty convenient considering he doesn’t fancy associating himself with any of the other folk around here who didn't seem tremendously friendly. A bit grisly perhaps. A bit growly. A bit like they’d stab him if he got within arm’s reach. A bit like that.

So predictably, out of the selection of company he’s presented with he’s going to choose Mr Grumpy Witcher Face to stick by. They just needed to air out the tension between them. What better place to air something out than at the top of a blusterous mountain? So everything will be fine. It’ll work itself out. Honestly, everything had to work out otherwise he might have himself a fun-sized meltdown. 

They’d been walking for approximately an hour (just to reach to the bottom of the mountain) and his feet were already aching.

“Your man might have mentioned the road was too narrow for horses in his initial sales pitch.” He complained acridly, observing the gathering of people preparing to embark on the same quest as them.

Townsfolk had gathered to see the teams off, a few merchants here and there offering supplies, and others to bring order to the event. Early morning rays dappled through the trees towering above them, this bit of forestry marking their start point. It was damp, another hassle Jaskier discovered with his boots. Naturally, he’s going to vocally express his displeasure in anything that ruffles his feathers the wrong way, the alternative being to suffer in silence. And just out of pure spite, he’s tempted to whine about the smallest of nuisances... like breaking a nail. 

“Welcome to the world Jaskier.” Geralt grumbled back.

“Damn it to Korath!” A nearby dwarf cursed.

_Ah, a fellow man in distress. Well, misery does love company..._

Jaskier paused. “What’s got your goat?”

“Someone’s stolen my pack.” The dwarf explained, gesturing to his pony which did indeed appear to be missing a travelling pack. The dwarf sneered. “Probably those fuckin’ Reavers!”

Following the dwarf's sharp gaze over his shoulder he found himself pinned by several glares belonging to a gaggle of Reavers. And wasn’t that just terrifying? Disinclined to get caught in the middle of a potential conflict before they’d even started up the mountain, he rose both hands to declare himself impartial and skittered after his walking shield – of whom lingered nearby with Roach.

The Reavers had a distasteful reputation that somewhat tipped the scales of morality. If he’s going to be stuck on a mountain with them then it’s probably wise to remain invisible. Who notices a bard anyway unless you’re attending a ball?

The dwarf clearly didn’t share the same fear for the Reavers. 

“Aye, well, three days’ journey and only one route to the top. Leaves plenty of time for me to piss in his gruel!” He cackled, trying to provoke a reaction from the Reavers with his taunting, very nearly succeeding. Satisfied with himself, the dwarf spat on the ground and lumbered on, noticing Geralt watching the scene. In a politer manner (or as polite as this man was going to get) he offered out a hand. “Name’s Yarpen Zigrin.”

Geralt’s judgemental stare flicked between Yarpen and the murky saliva on the ground. After a few seconds, he accepted the handshake. “Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier leaned forward to offer his hand. “And my name is Julian Alfred Pankratz-“

“Aye, I know.” Yarpen waved him off dismissively. Well…Jaskier could confidently confirm that Yarpen _did not_ know that. “You’ll fetch a goodly amount for that mare if you sell now!” Yarpen advised Geralt before departing with his team.

Awkwardly he stood fiddling with the strap of his lute while the Witcher gave Roach a few soothing pats. He knew Geralt held a lot of respect for the horses he owned, calling each and every one of them Roach. Both convenient and confusing, but somewhat effective in his line of work. More than once Jaskier's wondered whether Roach was all Geralt had at one point. Moreover, he's uncertain whether there's a heartfelt significance behind the name Roach or whether Geralt simply names them all that to ensure he doesn't get too attached. 

“Charming how everyone wants to get their hands on Roach these days, isn’t it?” He mused conversationally. Roach had fame just like Geralt. Jaskier blames the song he mentioned her in a few years ago. 

“He means we won’t make it out alive.” Geralt translated. 

“Wait, what?” He frowned. “No one mentioned anything about impending death!” 

Once more he finds himself completely baffled over why they’re embarking on this ridiculous trip in the first place. Especially now with a forewarning of almost certain death being thrown into the mix of things. What was there to gain from this? Jaskier hardly thinks he’ll find inspiration on a quest to slay a non-existent dragon, and Geralt’s reputation is practically impenetrable at this point so declining the hunt wouldn’t so much as graze it. (Alright Geralt's reputation fluctuates depending on their location but _still_.).

“How is it that I’ve walked this earth for decades without coming across a Witcher and then the first one I meet, I can’t get rid of?” Yennefer asked while crossing the distance over to them.

Ah…yes…how could he forget… the real reason they’re here…she two legs and an uncanny aptitude for souring Jaskier’s mood in a millisecond with her presence alone.

Geralt’s eyes softened upon seeing Yennefer. In an instant, a familiar, crackling vexation ignited and sparked through Jaskier's nerves. It burnt hot, alighting his insides. A warning of something uglier bubbling beneath the surface of his agitation that would only tolerate being goaded so far.

“I’d say something strange was afoot, but then again, Witcher’s are bound to bump into monsters eventually,” Jaskier said snidely before he could stop himself.

Yennefer forced a dry laugh. “Jaskier.”

“Yennefer.”

She furrowed her eyebrows as she analysed him. “The crow’s feet are new.”

“Yeah, well, you’re jokes are…” He frantically groped for an advantageous insult to toss back. If Yennefer wishes to engage in a battle of wits, then she’ll lose. Jaskier is articulate. Eloquent. A master wordsmith. Gifted with linguistic intelligence. “Old.”

All his years as a bard have failed him.

Look, there’s something about Yennefer’s piercing gaze that’s frighteningly akin to being held at the dangerous end of a sword, so pardon him for crumbling under pressure. She practically robbed him of all his intellect…with her…her… _face_. Like a thief. A minx. A bloody magpie.

Too abhorred by his own incompetence to care about being pathetic, he left them with a jumble of incoherent grumblings and went to go mope elsewhere. It’s fine. He’ll just stand here by this cart of hay and accept tragic defeat on the matter. He didn’t want to witness to their oh so _sickeningly sweet_ , lovey-dovey reunion anyway. Wouldn’t want to get a cavity. 

From where he leant against the cart out of earshot, he watched Roach butt her head against Geralt’s chest in an attempt to reclaim his attention.

 _You and me both, Roach._ He thought bitterly, prying his gaze away.

How very dare Yennefer verbally attack his image; next she’ll be coming for his livelihood. Crow’s feet? _Crow’s feet_?! Jaskier didn’t have anything remotely like crow’s feet. Slander. Utter _slander!_ In fact, he’s got to be the fairest damn bard in all the lands taking into account how much time he spends grooming his appearance every morning. It’s more often than not the reason they’re late to anything – a bard has to look his best! Therefore, Yennefer the absolute fibber who’s clearly talking out a donkey’s arse can take her false claims and shove it.

...Unless he genuinely did have crow’s feet. Oh, fuck. Could Yennefer be right? Did he have crow’s feet? Oh, gods. Did that make him old? It's far too early to be having this kind of crisis. Though perhaps he should start thinking about his legacy. Did he even have one? Would he be kicking the bucket sooner rather than later?! Didn’t he have a bad hip yesterday? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! First, it’s crow’s feet and next if he’s not careful it’ll be a busted hip to mark the rest of his miserable life as an invalid. How’s he supposed to go on adventures with a busted hip? He’ll be dead before he can sing the first verse of ‘Toss a coin to your Witcher’. The fleeting amount of time given to walk this world is truly cruel. He’s barely even lived! There’s still so much to see. It’s too soon for him to be thinking about hanging up his lute and-

_Stop it._

He let out a long sigh to stabilise his thoughts from spiralling rapidly out of control. Yennefer’s only screwing with him. He’s not old. There are no crow’s feet. And his hip only hurt yesterday due to him bruising it the night before. Ergo not old. Double ergo Yennefer’s a bitch. Logically he knew all of this. Regardless, he still self-consciously ran a fingertip over the skin near the crease of his eye trying to smooth it out. 

Did he have crow’s feet? No. Of course he didn’t. Unless he did? _Gah!_

And just _what’s_ so appealing about Yennefer? She’s no angel. If Jaskier flaunted about with ebony locks, flawless skin, purple eyes and an affinity for magic would Geralt regard him the same way he does her? What made her so special bar the womanly attributes? Perhaps it came down to her _charming_ personality. She’s self-absorbed, enjoys toying with people, borderline consumed by her obsession with power. And _that’s_ what gets it going for Geralt? Not that Jaskier wants to get it going for Geralt he just fails to see the source of this passion charged infatuation for -

_“Jaskier.”_

The close proximity of the voice startled him into staggering forwards, head whirling over his shoulder in search of the culprit. The space behind him and the cart led onto a field which was eerily empty compared to the dull buzzing of conversation coming from the gathering. Whatever voice he’d heard had curled into his earlobe like a ghost whisper carried by the wind. Whoever said it couldn’t be far.

“Uh, hello?” He responded cautiously, pushing away from the cart to go an investigate – compelled by curiosity if anything. His feet stopped at the line separating the pathway from the dense thicket. “Is someone there?”

Nothing.

He turned a full circle, scanning his surroundings and finding nobody near enough to have been able to whisper in his ear. A shiver ran up his spine and he found his gaze falling back on the field.

With a fretful frown, he edged closer, reluctant to go wandering off anywhere by himself. Beyond the barrier of thicket stretched a clearing, grass swaying in the light wind, bunched tussocks, overgrown cow parsley and a defensive line of trees standing guard on the other side. As his pupils met the darkest shadows between the trees a cold embrace seized him. 

Before Jaskier could think to fight it, he was trapped in a treacherous situation where his body felt like it was being shut down limb by limb. The feeling raced up his arms, spreading through his body until he started to drop into a state of delirious, specious reverie. His heartbeat thumped louder and louder in his ears. _Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._ Each pulse felt like a surge of water pumping into his head. Until he was underwater...drowning, going down, down, down…but still consciously aware of light-catching ripples on the surface. 

Gradually, he couldn’t feel anything, but it didn’t trouble him. He still had that guiding light on the surface. A persuasive invitation beckoning him closer, trying to tempt him with the promise of air. 

_Follow the light. Get air. Follow the light. Get air. Follow the light. Get air. Follow the light. Follow the light-_

“-skier.”

_Follow the light. Get air. Cross the clearing. Follow the light. Get air. Cross the clearing. Take the bait. Follow the light. Respond to the-_

“Jaskier!” 

A firm hand clamped down on Jaskier’s forearm, severing straight through the distorted underwater trance and draining the pressure from his mind. In a quick burst, his reality rocked back into place and he jolted, trying to blindly tug free his arm; stopping upon realising exactly who the iron grip belonged to.

“Geralt?” He blinked slowly.

“Move.” Geralt growled lowly, giving Jaskier little to no time to understand what the fuck just happened before dragging the shorter man backwards.

All Jaskier could do was let out a yelp and attempt to keep up with the quite clearly pissed off Witcher without tangling his own legs together and consequently falling over. After a few disorientated blinks he managed to shift his attention onto the surrounding landscape rather than Geralt. From the looks of things, he’d somehow ended up halfway across the clearing. Immediately confusion spiked. He doesn’t…recall ever leaving his spot beside the cart of hay. Oh well…not his biggest concern right this second.

“Whoa- whoa- okay! Geralt there’s really no need to manhandle me - _ow_ that’s a branch-“ 

As Geralt pushed through the thicket back onto the road, twigs and branches whipped backwards and swatted Jaskier who squeaked at natures tiny torture devices. Only when they were safely stood by the cart again did Geralt release his arm. Well, more so flung him – which would have made Jaskier fall over entirely had he not caught onto the cart for support. Golden hues fluttered mid-air and caught in his brown locks, splinters of hay stirring from the minor disruption. 

“Um…?” He kept hold of the wooden plank; slightly afraid if he let go, he’d somehow end up in the middle of the clearing again.

“What were you doing?” Geralt demanded, putting his hulking form between Jaskier and the clearing.

“I... nothing I was just…uh…nothing.” 

Geralt didn’t look convinced. “Stay on the road.”

“But I didn’t-“

“No. You stay on the road or you don’t come at all.” Geralt snapped, leaving no room for argument as genuine anger strained the capillaries around his yellow irises. 

_Where had this come from?!_

“Okay.” He caved instantly, uncertain whether or not to report what he’d heard. What _had_ he heard? “Okay, I will. No problem. _Sheesh_. Put the claws away. All I was doing was – well it doesn’t matter. I merely thought you may appreciate a moment alone with your dearly beloved back there. I mean _heaven forbid_ I actually leave your side for half a second to avoid violating the privacy of your profoundly baffling love life.”

For a glorious, delicious moment the anger in Geralt's expression melted into confusion. Then that shattered as he pinched the brim of his nose. “Jaskier this isn’t…” a huff. “Just fucking listen and stay on the road. Can you do that?”

_Listen._

Didn’t that just strike an already bruised nerve.

He leant forward with a sickeningly sarcastic smile. “Why don’t you use your words next time? I know that’s probably difficult for you, but some people don’t appreciate being wrestled across a field, believe it or not. Try calling me and I might just _listen_. I do have ears for a reason you know.”

Geralt leant forwards as well but with a glare. “I did.”

“Huh?”

“I called you and you kept on walking.”

“Oh.” He breathed, smile deflating along with the little credence he had left in himself. “I didn’t…hear you,” he admitted trying to remember Geralt’s voice in the fuzzy area of his mind where the memory of the past five minutes should be, finding it abnormally void. “I uh…maybe speak up next time.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed and he gave Jaskier a light push in the direction of the mountain trail. “Go.”

“Again with the manhandling…” He muttered, readjusting his lute on his shoulder and stomping ahead to find their team so they could get this show on the road already. 

Looking back, he didn’t miss the way Geralt purposefully sent a glare towards the other side of the clearing before following. With a grimace he ignored it. After all, it's much easier to pretend he hadn't heard a chilling voice say his name. Easier to pretend he hadn't unconsciously walked halfway across a sizable field. Easier to not contemplate whether he'd have kept going if Geralt hadn't interfered. Easier to ignore that there were fewer townsfolk here than before. All of that was easier because it kept his sanity intact. The last thing he needed was _more_ memory gaps and reasons for Geralt to be miffed with him.

So...yeah...it _is_ mildly concerning. But on top of last night _,_ making amends with Geralt, mountain climbing, putting up with Yennefer, various monsters they might encounter, the terrifying company that'll probably murder them while they sleep, a rumoured dragon, what's a bard supposed to do?

Ignore it. _Obviously_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- oh, Jaskier. I relate all too well to the whole 'ignore a problem until eventually it just goes away' attitude.
> 
> \- Also, someone asked me if Ciri will be in this, and the answer is yes eventually she will be. However (feel free to correct me if I'm wrong because I'm no expert on the timeline) I'm pretty sure Geralt first meets Ciri almost five years after the dragon hunt. Sooooooo she's not going to make an appearance for a while (though I'm tempted to just say screw that and shorten it to something like 3 years). But that's still waaaaay down the line so I guess we'll see. Anyway, have some Yennefer bantz to make up for it. Would you believe me if I said Yennefer's actually one of my favourite characters? I mean she's certainly not Jaskier's favourite right now but I like her!
> 
> \- The Witcher soundtrack got added to Spotify btw in case that's relevant news to anybody. I sure as hell freaked out lol (you would not believe how many times I've bloody listened to 'Her Sweet Kiss' while writing these chapters...I'm kind of in love with Joey Batey's voice though so I'm not complaining).


	3. Jury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I'd climb every mountain  
> And swim every ocean  
> Just to be with you  
> And fix what I've broken'  
> \- 'You Are The Reason' by Calum Scott

Hunting a dragon, Jaskier decided, with his very minimal experience, is far more tedious than one might expect. Well, hunting a non-existent dragon - a belief becoming increasingly more difficult to substantiate. 

A bugle horn signified the beginning of this great feat, the mellow sound echoing over the torrid lands they were destined to travel across in the coming days. As they progressed, conspicuous areas of once verdant landscape recently burnt black caught their eye, standing out like gigantic gaping wounds scorched into the side of the mountain, with crippled trees jutting out like broken bones. 

Foreboding, in every sense of the word.

Naturally, Jaskier ended up plodding along at the very back of the assemblage, panting and sweating while trying to make idle conversation with Téa and Véa – who were currently all he had for friendly company. Besides, what else was there to do other than pay court to badass warrior women who hadn’t yet told him to piss off? Fine. Yes. He’s bored. Climbing up a mountain is remarkably boring. There’s just nothing to do!

So, it really shouldn’t come as a shock that he lasts only half a day before strolling straight off the path in search of food. Look, he’s trying to win the favour of Téa and Véa, there’s exhaustion tugging at his bones, and he’s starving. What? He’s not the most athletically inclined person in the world! Though…he had thought he’d fare better than say…Borch – of whom practically skipped up the steep slopes like some kind of friggen mountain goat. 

Thus far breaks have been ridiculously scarce, which likely stemmed from the overly competitive nature bubbling between everybody. They’ve had one break at best, and even then, it was only to observe the damage done to the landscape by the alleged dragon. And it wasn’t as if Jaskier wanted to crack first, but since nobody else seemed to be he’d have to take one for the team.

“Ladies you look famished. Allow me to wander aimlessly into this thicket and retrieve for you, uh…a tasty afternoon treat.” 

In fairness…he hadn’t forgotten, so to say, about the rule. That tiddly, teeny, tiny, rule he’d been given at the start of the day. One might argue he’s breaking it. However, there’s a certain attraction to the forbidden that’s utterly hellish to ignore. Psychology works in funny ways like that. Ever since Geralt’s growly episode of _‘stay on the road_ ’, ‘ _fucking listen_ ’, ‘ _grrrr_ ’, a rebellious little part of Jaskier has been fatuously stomping its foot yelling _no_ like some petulant five-year-old-child.

And was he really ‘breaking’ any rules here? There’s barely even a path _to_ follow! It’s more of a bumpy gradient that may have once been considered a mockery of a pathway before getting invaded by high grasses and wild weeds. And Geralt never forbade Jaskier from going off-path he just…heavily advised against it. There's a difference. Therefore, Jaskier didn’t feel overly guilty about disregarding a rule that totally wasn’t actually a rule.

With a rumbling stomach, he gently placed his lute on the side of the ‘path’ while giving it several mental promises that he wouldn’t be gone long and hurriedly began wading through overgrown shrubbery, heading straight towards some luscious looking berries growing in tiny pops of red against dull green. Briefly, he mused on the concept of forbidden fruit and applying that to Geralt’s illicit romance with Yennefer now that she had Sir Eyck as an escort. Though he couldn’t exactly see Yennefer settling down with someone like Sir Eyck. Frankly, he couldn’t see Yennefer settling down full stop.

“I am hungry. Anyone else hungry? I could genuinely eat a…” With a watering mouth, he plucked one of the plump berries from the bush. Behind the rustling of leaves, a faint whimpering sounded making him pause to investigate beyond the plaint branches, only to find a pair of yellow eyes gleaming sadly up at him. “There’s something back here! It sort of looks like a faun!”

“Jaskier.” Geralt called exasperatedly from where everyone had stopped to wait for him.

Jaskier ignored him. Maturely.

Oh gosh. Oh no. It’s adorable. The newly discovered faun tugged at all his heartstrings, making him melt instantly and coo softly. Call him a sucker for all things cute and fluffy, but he’s genuinely considering rescuing this desolate little creature from the dreary confines of this mountain and bringing it along as an official team mascot and then personally adopting it afterwards. The very least they could do is spare some food for it.

“Hello. Hello little fellow. Aw, aren’t you just the cutest…” His entire sentence fizzled out as the whimpering evolved into a low, guttural, growl and the faun uncurled its body to rise on two feet. What Jaskier first perceived to be a sweet, helpless, small, faun changed all too quickly into a creature standing a whole head taller than him. If the size alone didn’t spook him, then the sharp teeth did. “…most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Right, run away! Run away! Geralt! It’s one of your friends again!”

And he said he was bored…

Not inclined to become a _tasty afternoon treat_ himself, he frantically scrambled away, scooping up his lute in the process and planting two feet back on the suddenly very obvious pathway – the safe, reliable, beautiful pathway he promises to never stray from again, ever, on pain of death. The creature gave chase, forcing Jaskier to wind his legs to run faster until he got within reaching distance of Borch, who swiftly yanked Jaskier behind him and the Zerrikanians.

“What in the name of Bloemenmagde is that?” Yarpen asked, rattled by the sight of the approaching creature. 

“It’s a Hirikka. It’s probably starving. Sheathe your weapons.” Geralt answered flatly, drawing attention to the creature’s skeleton-like figure. Even from several feet away you could count its ribs. Everyone reluctantly obeyed.

Well…almost everyone…

A loud battle cry exploded from Sir Eyck and the knight charged forwards with his sword held high in the air, full of bullish purpose. Yarpen got shoved aside in the outburst and hit the ground hard. The Hirikka let out a panicked growl and backed away. Two swift strikes later and its arms were severed off, followed shortly by its head.

And it didn’t stop there. Sir Eyck continued to hack at the already mutilated corpse, making it jerk limply. Every _thump_ and every _squelch_ made Jaskier’s wince deepen, yet he found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the morbid display, half fascinated by the inordinate execution of it. That knight either had some serious pent-up anger issues, enjoyed the thrill of battle way too much, or thought himself grotesquely self-righteous. Probably the latter.

A few uncomfortable seconds crawled by until Sir Eyck finally deemed the Hirikka _thoroughly_ defeated and stepped back to address the Heavens. “For kingdom and glory!”

“Sir Eyck!” Yennefer exclaimed, shouldering past Geralt to go fuss over her lunatic of a knight. She cradled his face, wiping the blood from his cheek and checking him over with faux worry. “You could have been killed.”

_Oh please…_

Is everyone buying this? Yennefer might be fooling Sir Eyck with this little charade of hers but she’s not fooling Jaskier. His whole life is built on performances, so he knows an act when he sees one. Isn’t it obvious she couldn’t give a damn about this poor knight? Everyone else sees that too, right? Whatever the reasoning behind her choosing him as an escort might be, it undoubtedly falls on personal gain – meaning he’s nothing more than a pawn to her. Which begs the question of what her bigger plans are and why she’s using her time here as an opportunity to mess with Geralt – she didn’t _have_ to shove him. Unless it’s a form of gross flirtation. Geralt didn’t seem impressed by it.

And you know what? Jaskier wants to be smug. He really, really does. He wants to jump and point and say ‘ _hah! Look! Do you see now, Geralt? She’s playing you and that knight like a damn fiddle! Because she’s evil!_ ’. Of course, he didn’t do anything of the sort. Instead, he silently watched Geralt’s expression twist into something jealous and sour.

If Jaskier hadn’t been so oblivious of his own expression at that moment he might have realised it reflected Geralt’s like a cracked mirror. The only difference being…they were looking at different people.

One at a Witch.

And one at a Witcher. 

“If we’d have fed it, it would have gone away.” Geralt said, turning to help Yarpen to his feet again.

“Thanks.” Yarpen nodded appreciatively. “That knight might be a fucking dumbbell, but I’ll be damned, the dragon won’t stand a chance.”

Now that the 'threat' had been dealt with a sense of security was restored. Though he’s not so sure the Hirikka deserved such horrendous treatment. Honestly, Jaskier only ran because didn’t know what it was and got spooked.

On the sunny side of things, Jaskier had accomplished his initial goal of inducing a break! Everyone lingered while Sir Eyck dealt with his kill, some taking a seat to briefly rest their feet and others choosing to amble behind bushes to take a leak. Geralt though took one look at Yennefer coddling Sir Eyck and stormed on, muttering something about scouting out the path ahead.

Despite the fact his entire being screamed for him to seize this opportunity and take a break, he mustered up some kind of bashful confidence and abandoned his safe spot tucked behind Borch and the Zerrikanians to dart after Geralt. He’s better than this. After years of training his body to keep up with Geralt through all kinds of ghastly conditions, he should be more than capable of climbing up this bloody mountain. Yet all this walking was fucking exhausting.

Who’d have thought walking up a mountain _would_ _indeed_ require a whole lot of walking _?_

Nevertheless, now was a golden opportunity to uh…check up on things. Geralt has not so subtly been avoiding him ever since they set off. While Jaskier does enjoy living under false pretences that everything’s absolutely fine, it’s a little difficult living under such a notion when the one person he’s here for is pointedly snubbing him.

From an outsider’s perspective everything probably appeared moderately typical considering Geralt, most of the time, segregates himself to the side-lines to brood like the big old loner that he is. However, unlike usual, Geralt didn’t make an effort to put up with Jaskier’s nonsense, he didn’t silently listen to his yatter, and didn’t even allow Jaskier to walk beside him. And Jaskier knew this because every time he tried Geralt suddenly had reason to be on the opposite end of the group – which is partly how Jaskier came to be at the back with Téa and Véa in the first place.

And Jaskier could deal with that. He could grin and bear it. Because fuck, maybe he’d finally annoyed Geralt into oblivion this time and the man wanted some peace and quiet. That seemed like a pretty sound theory until the stone-cold realisation hit him that Geralt was willing to speak to anyone who wasn’t called Jaskier. To Borch. To the dwarves. Hell, Jaskier’s pretty sure he caught Geralt idly chatting to a Reaver. Which would have been outright comedic seeing the Witcher _willingly_ socialise with other people if it didn’t feel so much like a slap to the face. 

So, he knew something was wrong. And he had a pretty good idea of what that something might be.

His insecurity over it had started snowballing more and more out of proportion. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that all this churlish behaviour was potentially kindled by questionable events from the other night. _Surprising_ events that lingered like a bad smell between them. 

Regardless, Geralt seemed upset by Yennefers actions, so Jaskier being the good friend that he is decided to make sure the big guy is alright. Conveniently, he can use that to disguise the fact he’s also trying to work out where they stand. Testing the waters, if you will. Of which should have been blatantly obvious the second he fell into step beside Geralt and offered the brightest smile he had in him and got a pair narrowed eyes in response. If that didn’t get the message across, then Geralt looking around and realising with a flash of vexation that he was now trapped alone with Jaskier, should have done. However, Jaskier decided to be optimistic and push forwards.

_Alright, Jask…be normal. Be normal. Be normal. Be-_

“Do you ah…would you like a berry?” He blurted, holding out a slightly squished berry on the palm of his hand – the only spoil he’d gained from that whole ordeal. For good measure, he quickly added, “ _Chum_.”

Geralt apathetically side-glanced the pitiful berry. In fairness the berry had probably seen better days, it didn’t look remotely appetising anymore and had grown warm being cramped in Jaskier’s hand for so long. In retrospect, this was a truly awful opening.

“What was that about?”

“…the berry or…?”

“The berries. The Hirikka. All of it. I told you not to-“

“I know, I know. You told me not to go off-road. That may ring a bell. Quite a few bells actually considering you were being rather peremptory about the whole thing.” Jaskier remarked, giving a nervous chuckle as he wracked his brain in search of an adequate excuse. “On the bright side, I acquired some marvellous berries from my minor excursion so all’s well that ends well.”

It did not end well.

“One berry doesn’t quite compensate for the trouble.” Geralt countered coldly. “We have food.”

“Correction, _you_ have the food, and you haven’t exactly been the most-“ He paused to re-evaluate his next word choice, “ - _approachable_ , recently. No real harm came of It anyway. Excluding…the harm done to the Hirikka, of course. Terrible shame, really. I did initially perceive it to be a dear little thing, much akin to a puppy, you know? Then it revealed its true colours and well…different story. Come to think of it I could name a few striking qualities you happen to share with it; yellow eyes, growly temper, _shockingly_ tall-“

“A _Hirikka_ -“ Geralt cut him off, fingers clenching tighter around his pack. “ – is an endangered species. It’s beyond rare to see one. Why doesn’t it surprise me that it’s you who managed to stumble upon one and lead it to its demise?”

Whoa. Whoa. Whoa-Whoa- _Whoa-_

_Hold on._

“I – wait what? Are you – you believe I’m to blame for that?” His eyebrows shot towards the heavens, and he couldn’t decipher whether Geralt was being serious or not. “How did you arrive at that conclusion, pray tell?”

"Did you happen to see any other idiots running off-road?"

For the love of- all he’d wanted was some berries! Was that honestly too much to ask for? And in his defence, that thing _looked_ like a faun! But nooooo, nothing’s ever simple is it? Not on this mountain of _death_.

Somehow this is karma. All of it. This whole bloody trip is conceived by karma.

“Oh, oh really? That’s how you’re going to substantiate that? I’m sorry, did I somehow make Sir Eyck go completely doolally and mangle up that poor creature? That’s my fault now, is it? Unless we have ourselves a classic case of mind control. Which sounds far more like your vulpine witch’s style than mine.”

“Careful.”

“Well, bravo, you got me. You’ve exposed my _oh so_ nefarious alter ego; Jaskier the Hirikka Slayer.” He snorted, spreading his hands through the air before him to exaggerate the title. "I never took you to be such a fanatic for saving rare and endangered species, aren’t you full of surprises lately.”

A tight-lipped, acerbic, smile curled one corner of Geralt’s mouth. “I’m not the one full of surprises.”

And yeah, Jaskier just walked right into that one didn’t he.

It could have been a compliment. Underlining _could have been_. Coming from anybody else on the continent, Jaskier could and _would_ have taken that as a compliment. Coming from Geralt? Not so much. The allusion to the other night, no matter how fleeting his memory of it might be, didn’t go over his head. 

How long were they going to engage in this torturous dance around such a ridiculous problem? And it’s almost comical because Jaskier thrives in scenario’s that involve dancing and word games and all kinds of fanciful bullshit, but usually, he finds himself dealing with those scenarios on what he likes to refer to as a _bard’s battlefield_ – otherwise known as a ballroom. So, he’s a little thrown off balance here. Because he’s not in a ballroom currently. He’s not facing any rivals. Not talking to a noble. Not even addressing a stranger. He’s on a mountain, beside his friend, who’s trying to…to what? Spite him? Make a misshapen joke?

Whatever the case, it’s tense and bitter. Jaskier doesn’t like it. Not one bit. 

So, it needed dealing with. _Now_.

Jaskier strained to keep a nonchalant composure. “I uh…funny you should say that actually…since we’re on the topic of surprises perhaps you would indulge me for a moment and-“

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“I don’t care.”

It took a whole heap of will-power to stop himself from pouting. “I’m trying to offer you an olive branch in the form of a berry right now, Geralt, and predictably you’re making it incredibly difficult. I truly apologise for playing a part in the death of the Hirikka. I can’t believe I even need to spell this out, but I never intended to be the bait on the hook of its demise. Now might we move on?”

Geralt sighed. “To…?”

“To…well…uh…embracing the spirit of reconciliation, so to say. As you’re aware, the past couple of days have been rather eventful, with ups and downs all around and I admit some of those downs were partly my doing. Now I need to rectify that because if I must endure another second of the cold shoulder then I fear I will succumb to insanity and _die_. Could you imagine the tragedy of that? Men and women from across the lands would weep in my absence and-“ 

“Get to the point already, the dragon isn’t going to end itself.”

“I’m _getting_ there! Have some patience, man. Now if my grandmother, gods rest her soul, taught me anything it was to do unto others as you would have them do to you. She didn’t exactly verbally communicate this it’s something I learned from her actions alone, which weren’t entirely good-natured, mind you. To this day I’m still convinced the woman had a hand in enrolling me in that gods awful school my parents so tirelessly desired I attended. Come to think of it, Ferrant, the lucky bastard, was the only one of us grandchildren who didn’t get himself trapped under her thumb-“

“Rambling, Jaskier. We’ve talked about the rambling.”

There wasn’t enough willpower in the world to stop him from pouting now. “And if I recall we met an unshapely standstill on that particular argument since my ramblings know no end. Anyway, as I was saying…where was I before that minor tangent? Oh, yes, my grandmother's thumb – no – shit. See this is why you don’t cut a man off mid-ramble! Now I’m all discombobulated.”

“Discombobulated?” Geralt repeated blasely, apparently resigning himself to this.

“Yes!” He stressed, growing uncomfortably aware of his flustered state which only served in making him impossibly _more_ flustered. “And this may be much ado about nothing-“

“Hm.”

“– however I can’t help but notice that around this time last week we were like two peas in a pod and now we’re like…we’re like two potatoes on opposite sides of the patch.”

Geralt slowed his pace, furrowing his eyebrows in genuine confusion. “What?“

“Alright, yes, fine, I will admit that didn’t make a great deal of sense but-!” he flung his arms out wide, nearly whacking Geralt by accident. “-you get my point!”

“Not re-“

“The point is we’re no longer akin to peas in a pod because I royally fucked up. And correct me if I’m wrong, it’s just that um…well…you see…” He flapped a hand in front of him trying to nonverbally express his point. “…I suspect I may have offended you? If the tables were turned, I know I would certainly appreciate an apology. So here goes nothing. In regards to the other night, you know, after our awe-inspiring return from dealing with those pesky, child abducting, nymphs-“

Geralt’s head snapped in his direction so fast his neck cracked. “Jaskier-“

“I wholeheartedly acknowledge that amid my inebriate drollery I overstepped a boundary – correction, I _demolished_ a boundary. Now as the curse of sobriety has claimed me anew, I cannot begin to express how truly mortified I am by my actions. I mean, me, mortified, have you ever heard of the sort?” He relentlessly ploughed on, determined to get this nonsense behind them once and for all. “Nevertheless that doesn’t erase all the foolish things I said-“

“- you need to shut up-“

“-some of which really reached unfathomable levels of inappropriateness-“

“-Jaskier, I am warning you to leave it-“

“-and I mean it’s completely understandable that you’re bothered by this-“

“-if you know what’s good for you then-“

“-after the whole child surprise in Cintra nightmare the last thing you need is-“

“ _JASKIER_.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, a little taken aback by the harsh tone. Geralt stopped as well with a strange cacophony of emotions rippling across his features – most of which were unidentifiable bar something unfortunately similar to anger which Jaskier really didn’t want to be dealing with.

“We aren’t discussing this.” Geralt stated, shoulders squaring and jaw clenching so tight muscles are twitching at his temples. “Not here.”

“So I’m _right_ you _are_ pissed at me for-“ he tried but abruptly got cut off as Geralt slapped his arm. “Ow! Wha- you absolute brute! What’s your problem?”

“ _Not_ here.”

Reflexively he scowled, jutting his chin with defiance blazing through him anew, all while resisting the urge to rub his arm where it now ached dully. 

“Why not? If not here, then where? Where oh where would be suitable for you? Would the Great White Wolf prefer a bathhouse or an inn for his comfort? My sincerest apologies, I’m afraid we won’t have either of those at our disposal, not until we return from this damned dragon hunt that _somebody_ signed us up for. Hint, hint, not me.”

“You needn’t have come.” 

“Oh please.” He scoffed, crossing his arms. “Like fuck I’d have stayed behind.”

“And this isn’t about… _comfort_.” Geralt spat like the mere idea of comfort disgusted him. Big shocker there. “This is about keeping you-“ For a fraction of a second it almost seemed like Geralt was about to say safe. “-from making matters worse.”

“Fortunately, I’m attempting to do the exact opposite of - wait, hang on, _worse_? What do you mean worse? I know you’re pissed at me for the L-“ He cut off again with a yelp, hopping backwards to dodge yet another smack. “Alright! Bloody Hell, fine, I won’t say the L or S word. Melitele give me _strength_. I am trying to make amends, Geralt! Is that much not obvious? And don’t go thinking we won’t be having a very long and serious conversation about all this manhandling or-or _Witcher_ handling business because it’s become an awfully bad habit you’ve contrived!”

Perhaps Geralt has a phobia to the phrase _‘Law of Surprise’_ , how’s Jaskier supposed to know?

Currently, he’s walking on a very fine line between half wanting to explode into a fit of fury because Geralt won’t hear him out, and half wanting to explode into a fit of tears because Geralt _won’t hear him out_. And what the fuck is that even about? Passingly he wondered when all his suaveness went out the window.

“Yesterday you spoke of privacy,” Geralt said carefully. “There is none here. Not for this. So drop it.”

Jaskier’s left eye twitched uncontrollably. “Oh, you mean when I attempted to pull you aside specifically because we _had_ the privacy to discuss this and you brushed me off? You mean then?”

“No…yesterday we weren’t…this isn’t-“ Geralt shook his head with a barely audible growl, blinking angrily over Jaskier’s shoulder at the surrounding foliage. “Trees have ears, Jaskier.”

“The…trees have ears?” He parroted in patent disbelief. It took a second to realise Geralt was being completely serious. “Right. Because that makes… so much sense. Well, I don’t care if the damn rocks have ears what I care about is – uh – Is – uh – well I care about solving this so if you could just take this stupid berry or at the very least throw me some kind of bone here and tell me how to fix this.”

Geralt shook his head and turned to continue walking up the path. “Just forget it.”

 _Oh,_ the fuck _no you don’t._

Jaskier determinedly strode after him. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Not until I have your forgiveness. And don’t try telling me everything’s fine because it clearly isn’t. You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Jaskier.”

“Am I now? You know, I’d prefer there weren’t any proverbial mounds of conical earth representing a problem between us.” He retorted, unsure why this was amounting to be such a big deal in the first place. Geralt pointedly blanked him. “Alright fine, have it your way. If you won’t engage any further with this topic then how about we discuss another? Such as…oh I don’t know…why we’re even partaking in this hunt? Because we’re certainly not here for the dragon, are we? So, tell me something, Geralt, are you here for Borch, for Yennefer, or for yourself? Which will be the prime motivator, righteousness, romance, or self-gain?”

Oh, he was _stomping_ on thin ice right now.

“Does it matter?”

“No, I suppose not.” He decided, doing his best to keep up with Geralt’s fast pace. “Do you want my opinion though? Because _I think_ we’re here for-“

“Fuck this.” Geralt whirled around, nearly causing Jaskier to crash face-first into his chest. A finger was jabbed at him. “Don’t badger me over my motives when the only reason you’re here is the exact reason you’re anywhere. You’re like a leech. You feed off everyone else’s efforts for a second-rate song. Now fuck off and give me a damn break, bard.”

Ouch. Catastrophic _ouch_.

A heavy silence fell on them. Whatever had been fuelling the sharpness of Geralt’s anger spluttered and died, changing his features into something numb and half regretful, before that too vanished as he whirled on his heels to storm further up the path, acting like he didn’t notice the way he’d left Jaskier gawping stupidly after him.

It’s not really what Geralt said it’s more so how he said it. Geralt’s tone was laced in venom. And yeah, that venom hurt. That venom damn well _stung_.

“I’ll take that as a compliment! Second-rate is arguably a moderate improvement from fillingless pie!” He forced himself to call out sedulously, despite the knot tightening in his chest. Geralt didn’t so much as slow down. “Shit.”

Jaskier watched him go, wishing a hole would open up in the world and swallow him. Or maybe he could melt into a puddle of shame where he stands. Or better yet, perhaps the gods themselves would be gracious enough to send a lightning bolt to smite him here and now. Because way to go and make things worse…

When none of those things happened, and the rest of the company began catching up after their short break, he had no other choice than to drag his feet and trudge after Geralt with far less spring in his step than before. 

With a heavy sigh, he glanced down at his hands, finding one wet and stained red from where he’d clenched his fists too tight in frustration – bursting the berry. If it had been at all edible before it certainly wasn’t now.

* * *

To say the rest of the day improved much would be a far cry from the truth.

Jaskier’s bruised ego had him seething like a bristled cat at the back of the group _once again_ , however this time he didn’t bother making small talk with Téa and Véa. After he got over the fact that Geralt called him a leech when quite clearly if he were to be any bug at all, he’d be a bumblebee (for reasons he’ll get into another time), he stews on the knowledge that the argument was probably all his fault. Alright, mostly his fault. _Definitely_ all his fault. But Geralt was no saint in it either!

And now the tension between them was almost unbearable to the point where Jaskier kept reverting to bad habits he once strictly trained himself out of; tearing at his nails and gnawing at his lip. Self-destruction is bad for business. Nevertheless, the niggling little impulse summoned by his frazzled anxiety continued to pester him.

Clouds filtered in with a colder wind, giving everyone the sense that the day was coming to a close, so they searched for potential areas to make camp. Since they’re still travelling along the lower slopes – even if it felt like they’d hiked over ten mountains and then some – they easily located shelter under a cluster of trees.

Several divisions were immediately made apparent, scattered amongst all the teams. The main one being between the Reaver’s and just about anybody else, which was insultingly obvious in the making of two separate campfires. In terms of sleeping arrangements, more divisions understandably occurred as teams dumped belongings to claim their own patches of land away from others.

Yennefer had a tent. A fucking _tent_.

Talk about magical privileges. Personally, Jaskier thinks it’s fair to say if she canoodles with Geralt from time to time then the very least she could do was offer them a tent too. And while he’s at it, why can’t she simply portal them to the top of the mountain? He’s seen her portal places before so it’s within her range of capabilities! But his expertise isn’t in magic so perhaps there are other complications to it that he’s ignorant of. She’d probably only portal herself and Sir Eyck to the top anyway.

And then, of course, the more subtle division, the one that had Jaskier awkwardly floating around camp with his nose glued to his songbook; himself and Geralt. If anybody noticed the restless agitation of Jaskier or the rigid posture of Geralt as he flung firewood down, then they didn’t comment on it. Wisely so.

He’d decided to give Geralt some space, because really what else was he supposed to do? Ambushing Geralt into talking had evidently been a colossal failure. Granted, in retrospect, it had been incredibly senseless to verbally pummel Geralt for forgiveness subsequent to the Hirikka drama – especially when Geralt made it abundantly clear he blamed Jaskier for that even though it wasn’t (entirely) Jaskier’s fucking fault but whatever. That’s just another thing to add to the ever-growing list of _reasons_ _Geralt’s pissed off with Jaskier_ lately. 

So, perhaps the Witcher would benefit, or at the very least appreciate, having some space.

Jaskier though…

He hated the space! The absence of camaraderie. The purlieu of Geralt’s world he’d been cruelly banished too. And for what? A drunken joke!? How is that just? Isn’t it basic common curtesy to overlook a drunk man’s nonsense!? That must be a rule somewhere. A law. Geralt might as well be committing treason.

Unfortunately, he has a feeling there’s a storm coming... meaning the worst is yet to come.

Which he’s proven right about the moment he decides to join everyone else filtering over to the campfire. Because Sir Eyck decided it would be a spectacular idea to drag the corpse of the Hirikka along with them and now he’s attempting to roast the damn thing – only after triumphantly sticking its head on a pike, which earnt a series of disgusted sounds from Jaskier and a single grunt of disapproval from Geralt. 

With everything going on, he found himself hovering uncomfortably out of place trying to work out the most appropriate seat to take. Everyone else had more or less settled down, which didn’t offer him a whole range of seating options. Téa sat beside the Hirikka head, so no thanks he shan’t be squeezing in next to her. Véa squished herself between Geralt and Borch. Much to his dismay, the only available seats were beside the head, Yennefer, or Geralt. And Jaskier nearly laughed. Because _of course._

An intense game of tug of war broke out in his mind.

_Sit by Yennefer. Sit by Geralt. Sit by Yennefer. Sit by Geralt. Sit by Yennefer. Sit by Geralt. Sit by Yennefer. Sit by Geralt. Sit by Yennefer. Sit by Geralt. Sit by Yennefer. Sit by Geralt-_

“Ey, ‘less you’re planning on standin’ there all night take a fuckin’ seat already.” Yarpen barked irritably which forced Jaskier to realise he’d been stood like a moron behind the dwarves while weighing out his pitiful seating options.

“Right-“ On instinct more than anything, he plopped down on the rock beside Geralt. As if he’d have chosen the seat beside Yennefer, he didn't need that kind of additional torture today.

The company dissolved into idle conversation amongst each other, and very quickly Jaskier wished he'd chosen to sit by the Hirikka head. Geralt didn’t acknowledge him, staring forwards with steely eyes at the fire, his jaw set and brows pinched. Jaskier tried everything in his power to not take it personally.

Speaking as somebody who’s followed this Witcher around for at least two decades and over time has become familiar with every inflection, every shift in tone, every emotive _hm_ , Jaskier would like to think he knows Geralt fairly well. And as much as Jaskier prides himself on being able to read Geralt, he realises right now he can’t. Which hurts. It hurts as much as Geralt yelling at him does. All he’s interpreting is that Geralt _doesn’t want him around_ right now but has to fucking _deal_ with it because where else was Jaskier supposed to go? Hang out with the harmless Hirikka-? Oh, wait no, can’t do that because it’s dead. Which is supposedly all Jaskier’s fault too. He can’t exactly send Jaskier back down the mountain either.

And suddenly it makes sense why Geralt tried suggesting he stay behind.

_To stop him from making matters worse._

No, it’s not agreeable or fair in Jaskier’s mind, but at the very least it made sense now. In a weird, barely applicable, only logical when in Geralt’s head kind of way. Apparently, all Jaskier’s good for these days is making matters worse. He’s still not entirely sure what these matters he made worse are, because he didn’t single-handedly kill that Hirikka. And you know what? It’s bloody rich of a monster hunter to get angry at Jaskier for the death of one. 

So, fuck Geralt and his hypocritical Hirikka bullshit. Jaskier had every right to sit here. This is his rock now. It’s a very nice rock. Very comfortable indeed. One of the dwarves even offered him a faded blue rag to sit on, saving his clothes from getting dirtier – and it matched the colour of his undershirt! So, there’s that. And even with the argument weighing in the air between them, he still felt a whole lot safer sitting here. Safer from what? No clue. Out of the blue, he’d become completely on edge, with goosebumps tingling up his arms bringing a sense of inexplicable vulnerability. Well, nightfall is upon them and things have a tendency to go wrong in the dark. 

For a long while, the pair of them pretended the other simply didn’t exist. Geralt sat brooding in constipated silence while Jaskier fidgeted nonstop, tapping his foot incessantly and trying not to crawl out of his skin as each second ticked by until eventually he couldn’t take it and snatched out his songbook. It wasn’t even an attempt to be petty about the comment from earlier he just desperately needed an outlet to distract himself from how awkward things were. Which only results in him proving to be more of a nuisance by tapping his pencil. 

He thought of the journey thus far, trying to scrounge together loose lyrics that would fashion the skeleton of a song. He ended up with a page full of scribbled out words and questionable doodles. The only half conclusive lyric he ended up writing was:

 _‘A storm breaking on the horizon_  
 _Of longing ( ~~wronging~~?) and heartache and ~~trust~~? gust? ~~wanderlust~~ \- ?’_  
 _ \- Needs work!!! _  
O  
<[]>  
/\ _\- Grumpy Witcher_

And that didn’t quite capture the thrill of a dragon hunt, did it?

With a soft, dejected, huff he rubbed his eye with his free hand. This wasn’t getting him anywhere. Looking for inspiration he flicked back through a few pages and landed on the random stanza he wrote yesterday. _‘I’ll welcome my sentence’_. That line almost amused him. He hadn’t expected _his_ sentence to carry out into today.

On the makeshift wooden spit above the fire, the Hirikka meat sizzled and started wafting a malodourous smell around camp. Jaskier’s stomach _rolled_. Truly the whole thing looked dreadful. Revolting. Noxious. In fact, it would probably spread some kind of disease upon consumption. Now he wouldn’t by any means classify himself as a cook, however, he’s competent enough to know that consumable meat shouldn’t look like a carcass covered in chickenshit. 

All he could do was wrinkle his nose at the evenings – uh – _fine_ cuisine.

A pouch was shoved under his nose.

Jaskier blinked, lowering his songbook and quizzically following the arm back to Geralt who still refused to look at him. Did he have an arm spasm? Is Jaskier supposed to take this or-?

“You need to eat.” Geralt muttered quietly.

Oh, gods. _Words_. Is that a good sign?

For a good ten seconds, Jaskier stared at the pouch as if he couldn’t fathom why it was in front of him. Geralt, becoming impatient, dropped it onto Jaskier’s lap – or more accurately onto his songbook.

With tentative fingers, he clutched the scratchy material. “I uh, while I’m grateful, don’t you want it? I can’t help but notice you’ve yet to eat anything.”

The smell of the Hirikka was so off-putting that he didn’t have much of an appetite anymore, actually, he felt a little sick because of it. The last thing on his mind right now was eating. Though at the same time he didn’t want to come across as rude or abrasive and consequently aggravate the snag in their relationship further. What if this was Geralt’s version of an olive branch?

Geralt shrugged. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I've never liked dried apples or oatcakes."

Jaskier’s eyes blew wide and he tore open the bag, seeing inside a selection of dried apples and honey oat cakes – some of Jaskier’s favourite foods for travelling which he normally insisted they purchased before a long journey. 

“Geralt…”

“Eat.” Geralt side-glanced him. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

And fuck, okay then. Reluctantly he started nibbling on one of the apple slices. The sensory overload from the sweet aroma and taste was enough to render him momentarily speechless, then hunger exploded past his previous nausea and he instantly began munching on the delightful slices of fruit. This was infinitely better than berries!

“You sir, are a lifesaver.” He groaned, still stuffing himself with apple slices. After he got over the initial excitement of the evening treats, he wondered why Geralt would pack foods he didn’t like. Unless he packed them specifically for Jaskier. Surely not? That doesn’t even make sense when Geralt didn’t want Jaskier here in the first place. He must be lying. After all, who doesn’t like honey oatcakes?

“Save some for the rest of the journey.” Geralt told him, though there was still a compact glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

It wasn’t really obvious if this was supposed to be an olive branch, but regardless it did work to establish an unspoken, incredibly shaky, truce between them for now.

He set aside the dried apples and allowed himself one of the cakes, holding a hand under his chin to catch crumbs as he took large bites from it. By no means was it the best – it could be considered a tad stale under the heavy honey flavouring. However, right now Jaskier couldn’t name anything more delicious.

They fell back into silence, albeit a more comfortable one this time. Jaskier polished off the cake and went back to his songbook, humming contently with a stomach slightly fuller – highlighting slightly because really a few dried apples and a piece of cake weren’t going to cut it, but that’s life on the road!

It’s still better than Sir Eyck’s supper. Borch did attempt to advise against feasting on the Hirikka, but Eyck brushed him off and continued using his dagger as a fork to stick chunks of meat.

Jaskier was glad he’d finished his food by the time this happened – which miraculously cured his queasiness so he must have just been hungry. Nobody else except for a Reaver seemed keen on having any Hirikka – and even then, the Reaver tossed the chunk of meat at Yarpen trying to scare him.

Predictably, Hirikka doesn’t sit too well in the stomach.

It started with a series of stomach gurgles, followed by Sir Eyck exhaling heavily. “Oh dear. Um…I’m afraid I must take my leave.” He stood on shaky legs. “Lady Yennefer, may I escort you to your tent?”

 _Lady_ Yennefer leaned over to him. “Will you be joining me?”

_Oh, ho, ho, ho, the daggers in Geralt’s glare could cut through stone._

“Uh…My Lady, I would…” Eyck winced as his stomach protested again. “…never degrade your honour in such a way.”

Jaskier snorted. “I hate to break it to you, but that ship has sailed, wreaked and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.” Geralt slapped his arm. “Ow.”

Sir Eyck had to strain and hunch over to stop himself from passing gas, shuffling away from the campfire as fast as he could. “Oh…I need a shit.”

Unable to help himself he snorted and shook his head in mild sympathy for the utter nimwit. It was also a lovely opportunity to poke fun at Yennefer. Geralt didn’t find it amusing so Jaskier quickly went back to his songbook.

“So, shall we tell the poor bastard that he’s vying for a vassal state that won’t exist in a decade?” Yarpen asked.

“States rise and fall like the tide. Nothing new.” Geralt replied.

“This is fuckin’ new! The rightful son of Nilfgaard has returned, burnin’ through the south.” Yarpen countered.

“With Fringilla as his mage.” Yennefer sniggered, indicating a history between them. “Nilfgaard’s a joke.”

“I saw it with my own eyes down in Ebbing. Those zealot freaks are inching closer by the day. Won’t be long till they try and take Sodden. Next it’ll be Temeria. Redania. Cintra-“

“No.” Jaskier interrupted grimly. “Queen Calanthe would die before letting them take what’s hers.” _And in some respect, Geralt's._

Borch’s fingers fiddled with a pinecone he’d found. “Perhaps if Nilfgaard’s religious zeal had been tempered earlier by a stronger hand…” he speculated and shot Yennefer a pointed look.

Oh, forget about every grudge he’s been holding against Borch up till now. Enlisting them onto this dragon hunt? Forgiven. Not mentioning they’d have to walk the whole way? Forgiven. Failing to mention Yennefer? Forgiven forgotten! Borch is now his favourite person present. Jaskier’s going to personally ensure Borch is on the guestlist to his non-existent future wedding. Purely for that remark alone.

Yennefer’s whole demeanour soured and she promptly stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get my beauty sleep.”

It’s no secret that once upon a time Yennefer was supposed to be sent to Nilfgaard – something she very artfully avoided. Jaskier had to refrain from rolling his eyes at her as she marched away with her chin held high. 

Yarpen rose as well. “I don’t think it’ll make me prettier, but I need sleep too.” He said, slapping his comrade on the back to get the rest of the dwarves moving along as well. 

And then there was one team.

“So…we’re all about to have new evil overlords and dragons are, in fact, a thing. Good day all around.” He commented trying to coax conversation, only receiving a few snickers and smirks from Borch and the Zerrikanians. “Oh, you’ve all seen a dragon before, have you? Geralt, will you please tell them?”

Geralt stared at him with a look that just screamed he was about to be proven wrong. “They’re numbers are dwindling. Treasure seekers saw to that. But they do exist. What people call ‘green dragons’, like the one we have here, they’re the most common. Red dragons, less so. Black dragons are the rarest.”

Wait, _fuck_ , they were hunting a _dragon_?! A real dragon?! A gigantic, fire breathing, treasure loving, man-eating _dragon_? Right. Well…he's just going to stand far away…incredibly far away…when the time comes to actually fighting it. As a safety precaution.

Jaskier pursed his lips to refrain from scowling. So they’d been hunting this dragon – this remarkably real dragon – for a whole day and Geralt let him live under the delusion that It wasn’t real? That they were on a wild goose chase? Okay – yes – fine – Geralt’s been avoiding him and couldn't have known Jaskier didn’t know but- gah not the point. Now he’s made a fool of himself.

“Gold dragons are rarest.” Borch corrected.

Geralt grimaced. “Gold dragons are a myth. For a gold dragon to exist, it would… have to be the result of an accidental, unique mutation. And in _my_ experience, mutations, they’re intentional. But it doesn’t matter. Mutant or myth. Gold dragons met the same fate as anything too different to endure. They died out.”

_Intentional mutations…?_

“There are other ways of enduring. If it’s legacy you’re after, perhaps you should take the overgrown cock hair’s advice and become a knight.” Borch joked and Jaskier burst into a laugh, earning himself a glare from Geralt. “Sir Witcher…the White-Haired... of Rivia. You’d make a rather shitty one, refusing to slay dragons. But probably not as shitty a one as Sir Eyck of Denesle!”

Their laugher rang out into the night, merriment clouding Jaskier’s dormant anxiety and for a moment he forgot that the dragon wasn’t their only problem.

* * *

Their team craftily seized the spot beside the campfire, which Jaskier was beyond grateful for considering the temperature had dropped considerably. He curled up as close as possible to it, but soon enough the flames died down into embers and he grew restless as warmth started escaping him.

He tossed. He turned. He huffed. He puffed. He-

“Jaskier.” Geralt growled from his spot a few feet away.

“Yes?” 

“Shut up.”

Jaskier rolled onto his side, scowling sourly at the Witcher whose eyes weren’t even open. “I didn’t _say_ anything.”

“Then go to sleep.”

“I’m trying.” He mumbled, cheek smooshed against his doublet – which he could be wearing but then he wouldn’t have a pillow and the ground is uncomfortable enough as it is. “It’s chilly.”

“And?”

“And I _can’t_ sleep.”

“Then shut _up_.”

Jaskier paused. Then took in a deep breath and very deliberately sighed in the most exaggerated, most unnecessary, most intolerably interminable, way possible. Out of _spite_.

In a spur of frustration, Geralt thrashed up from the ground and stomped over to the campfire to stack more sticks onto it. Jaskier, of course, squawked and complained about nearly being stood on. Twice. Geralt nudged him to be quiet – people were still trying to sleep after all. Though, with the way Borch snored on the other side of the fire, it’s unlikely the damn dragon itself would wake him. Téa and Véa cuddled into Borch’s side sound asleep as well (at this point Jaskier’s given up trying to work out if they’re in a polyamorous relationship or not). They might wake but it’s doubtful they’ll care much.

After a few attempts, blowing gently and poking here and there, the fire finally flickered back to life and Geralt grunted in approval before collapsing back down in his original spot. Never mind Yennefer it’s this grumpy Witcher who’s in desperate need of some beauty sleep. And Jaskier did leave him alone after that, feeling the warmth radiating from the fire spread over his back, coaxing him towards sleep like a blanket enveloping him, letting the wheel of thoughts slow so he could start to drift off-

“Fuck.” Geralt hissed under his breath, snapping Jaskier back to the land of the living. The Witcher sat up, tempestuously scrubbing at his face with calloused hands.

As much as Jaskier would absolutely love to make a snide comment telling Geralt to be quiet, he knew that wouldn't accomplish much more than poking a bear would.

Jaskier yawned, slowly pushing himself up to lean on one arm. “Geralt? Is everything alright?”

Geralt dropped his hands onto his lap with a harsh _slap_.

“Right. Yes. Good. Reassuring.” Jaskier muttered, tiredness demanding that he lay back down. Geralt looked at him. “ _Yikes_ , you’ve got the whole… eye… thing going on. Did you know when you spiral into a terrible fit of anger your eyes do this remarkable thing where they start to glint? Glow. It’s really more of a glow – a murderous glow. Usually its uh... _eheh_ , aimed at me. Okay out with it, what’s got you so hot under the collar again?”  
  
Geralt grumbled something incoherent under his breath, rubbing his eyes again before saying, “Nothing.”

“That sure didn’t look like nothing.”

An exasperated glare was thrown his way. “I can’t sleep either. And I haven’t been able to _fucking_ sleep since-” Geralt shelved whatever he'd been about to say and replaced it with a frustrated growl. 

_Oh boy._

“I see.” He replied slowly, nibbling on his lower lip while debating the best way to handle this. “Is…there something on your mind?”

Geralt cracked a pained smile like there was obvious joke Jaskier was ignorant to. “Nothing that concerns you.”

“Might it concern Yennefer?” he guessed, finger beginning to trace random, jagged shapes through the dirt. When Geralt didn’t respond he assumed he’d guessed correctly. “Well, if it’s any consolation I think it’s obvious the queen of your heart harbours no genuine sentiments of affection for Sir Eyck.”

Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed. “No. She’s free to do as she pleases. I don’t care where her affections lie.”

“Even when they lie with Sir Eyck?” His lips quirked upwards as he noted the tension rising in Geralt’s shoulders. “You are a surprisingly shit liar. It’s okay to be bummed out.”

“If I wanted your advice, I’d have asked for it.”

“Okay.” He nodded unfazed, “But just so you know I’ve had my fair share of emotional wreckages over the years, so I know a thing or two about repairing a heart that’s suffered a devastating blow.”

“Save those words of _wisdom_ for your songs.”

“I have many songs that speak of love and heartbreak and betrayal.” He replied, letting his finger trace swirling patterns away from the jagged ones. “I’m actually in the process of…” he shook his head. “Well anyway, the point is you don’t always have to keep everything so pent up. And hey, lightening a load off your poor, exhausted, brain might even help you sleep better.”

“Hm.”

“Hm.” He agreed, wiping his hands clean and flopping onto his back again.

He blinked at slivers of starry sky he could see through the canopy of trees, itching his feet together. The fire licked at the wood, crackling and sending feeble sparks up to die in the air – Jaskier languorously watched them shoot ambitiously upwards to join the stars, never quite reaching them. 

After a contemplative moment, Geralt let out a long sigh and led back down as well, resting an arm behind his head. He glanced Jaskier’s way. “Would you like to know something else that helps people sleep?”

“What?”

“Some peace and quiet.”

“Unbelievable.” He scowled, leaning up to rearrange his folded doublet, treating it with the same respect he would a pillow that needed fluffing. “ _Un_ believable.” 

A small smile twitched at Geralt’s lips as he rolled his head away to stare upwards again. Taking the hint, Jaskier settled down and slung a lazy arm over his lute.

Something rustled in the shrubbery nearby which instantly prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. Geralt didn’t seem overly bothered by it, warm light from the fire dancing delicately across his sharp features. That helped the worry swelling inside Jaskier deflate some.

“Count the stars.”

“What?”

“Helps.” He supplied lethargically, snuggling into his doublet and letting his eyes slide shut. His tired mind reminded him to elaborate. “Sleep. Count the stars. Helps you sleep. Used to do it on the road with you all the time.”

Silence.

He didn’t know whether Geralt would take his advice or not and didn’t stay awake long enough to find out. Exhaustion finally came for vengeance, hitting him with all the force of a mace and knocking him out hard.

* * *

“Oi! I’m tryin’ ta take a piss ‘ere!” 

Consciousness crashed into Jaskier, cold and abrupt, and he stumbled – _wait why the fuck is he stood up?!_ \- then crumpled like a puppet whose strings got cut. Blindly he flapped his arms out in search of something solid to grab onto, finding nothing and landing straight on his butt. All his limbs all flexed in shock. The terrifying sensation of falling while still half asleep had every defensive system in him shrieking. 

Escape. Escape. _Escape_ -  
  
While desperately blinking away the blurriness he scrambled backwards on the ground until his back hit something solid and ragged. His surroundings slowly became crisper. Birds twittering intermittently out of sight, spikey grass prickling his palms, a dwarf standing a few feet away giving him a highly unimpressed stare while holding his-

“O- _oh_.” He squeaked, adverting his gaze elsewhere, discovering he’d backed up into a tree. Fumbling for balance, he grabbed the trunk for support and stood up again on unsteady legs.

“Fuckin’ hell.” The dwarf commented, raising an eyebrow at him slowly. 

“G-Gods - sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude -“ 

“Agh! Don’t be such a fuckin’ prude.” The dwarf snorted, who he now recognised to be Xavier Moran. “Are you gonna stand there with ya dick in ya hand or take a piss as well?”

Because he’s barely functioning enough to present himself as a socially acceptable human being at this ungodly hour, he instantly grabbed at his own crotch to check everything down there was where it should be, because his priorities are spectacular when paranoia kicks in. To his relief, Jaskier junior seemed to be tucked safely away in his pants like usual.

A loud cackle burst from Xavier, of whom was still relieving himself. “Oh. I see. One of _those_ mornings.”

Jaskier realised he was still grabbing himself. In front of this dwarf. For no apparent reason. Which probably looked like he’s got an unfortunate case of morning wood he’s trying to deal with.

In his utmost defence, he does have a few past experiences in waking up somewhere unfamiliar and those instances _have_ involved a strong degree of nudity (most of the time). However, those times usually include a hangover, a bed, and a bonny looking noble as well, not the woodland and a pissing dwarf.

“What? No – I -“ He groggily forced out, promptly removing his hand from his crotch and giving it an accusatory glare. His panicked adrenaline quickly transformed into discomposed stuttering. “ _No_.”

Xavier wiggled his - _ehem_ \- manhood then tucked it in his pants. “Don’t worry, lad, ya secrets safe with me.” 

“Wha – there is no secret –“ He’s not awake enough to be dealing with this kind of bullshit. “I was just…going for a morning walk.”

“Right.” Xavier drawled with a smirk. “Well, I’ll give you some privacy for your mornin’ _walk_.”

“I’m not – “ He huffs and manages to grasp onto some thread of cohesiveness telling him to stop hugging the bloody tree because it’s not helping his case. “You have the wrong idea, my friend, completely wrong. I’m just – you know what it doesn’t even matter what I was doing but I wasn’t doing that.”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Glad we cleared that up. Right-” He clasped his hands together and forced a smile on his face. “Lovely walk, marvellous morning, great…chat. Now I should really be heading back before I’m terribly missed.”

With that he pointed in a random direction and hurried into a brisk walk to get out of this untoward situation, silently wondering why this is, in fact, his life.

“It’d probably help if you were going right fuckin’ way, ya klutz!” The dwarf called after him in even more sadistic amusement. Jaskier glanced back to see him heading in the opposite direction. “Unless you need a few minutes to-“

“Oh!” he exclaimed, nervous laughter bubbling from him as he scampered after Xavier, leaves crunching beneath his feet. “Yes. Of course. I knew that. Silly me. Still half asleep.”

Instantly he winced at his word choice because what the fuck? No really, _what the fuck_? Okay. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. It’s fine. He’s not hurt or in any immediate danger. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He probably just…sleepwalked all the way out of camp and into the terrifying unknown of the wilderness. Totally fine. _Since when has he ever been prone to sleepwalking?_ No. It’s fine. People sleepwalk all the time. It’s a completely common thing. There’s nothing unusual about it. 

As they trudged back into camp, people were just about finishing up their rest. There’s a change of light as the sun crests over the rolling landscape, acting as a precursor notifying everyone of dawn. Some dwarves are kicking others awake, the Reaver's are already packing up, and Borch is having a spot of breakfast with Téa and Véa. The only team that hasn’t made an appearance yet seems to be Yennefer and Sir Eyck. 

Without heeding any further attention to his surroundings, he darted over to where he remembers falling asleep, relieved to find all his belongings still there waiting for him. Especially considering Yarpen has already been robbed once on this journey. Now as the adrenaline wears off and his brain is satisfied there aren’t any impending threats to his existence, all his muscles groaned in despair. Despite having slept majority of the night he still felt overcome with bone-deep exhaustion. No, correction, because that’s not nearly dramatic or accurate enough, _soul-deep_ exhaustion.

And there’s still a whole day of walking to come!

The joy…

It’s at this wonderful moment that he glances to the side of his own sleeping space, half inclined to inquire what good all those Witcher senses were for if Geralt failed to even notice Jaskier _sleepwalking_ out of camp, only to find Geralt absent. The patch of dirt Geralt had been resting on still had all his things beside it. He blinked. He blinked again. Would Geralt wander off without his swords…?

Concern rapidly rising, he quickly raked his gaze over the camp and found no sign of the Witcher anywhere. To his minor annoyance, the only place he couldn’t search was Yennefer’s tent. But…Sir Eyck’s belongings are still dumped outside so…Geralt can’t be in there as well, can he? Unless they _really_ worked things out.

Before he could resort to interrogating Borch on the matter, out from the shrubbery stomped a very dishevelled looking Geralt; leaves tangled in his hair, top rumpled, and expression positively murderous. Their eyes locked and fulgurated with shared relief.

_Oh, thank the gods. He’s not missing._

With every intention of reporting all the bizarre happenings of the morning, he rushed up to meet Geralt halfway.

“Ah! Geralt, there you are. Wherever did you run off to? It’s barely first blush of the morning! Anyway, you’re never going to believe what – “ He broke off as Geralt brushed shoulders with him.

Stood with his finger still half in the air from where he’d been about to narrate his point, he watched Geralt storm straight over to the campfire and moodily begin shoving his stuff into his pack. Right. Of course. They’re not on friendly terms. How could Jaskier forget…

Though that was unnecessarily rude even for Geralt.

Trying not to let the drag of disconsolateness show on his features he summoned the most nonchalant expression he possibly could and stiffly followed. This hot and cold treatment is getting old. After the olive branch of food and their late-night conversation, one would think that everything would be tickety-boo. Apparently, Geralt’s become irksomely prone to holding grudges lately. Unless all of this is merely coincidental and the Witcher woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning - or the wrong side of the dirt patch.

Hang on, that’s right, Geralt had difficulty sleeping last night. If Jaskier knows anything, it’s that a sleepy Witcher is a grouchy Witcher. That’s probably the reasoning behind all the impertinence. Yes. That has to be it. So…there’s no real reason Jaskier needs to bring up the sleepwalking incident and add more stress into the equation of things. After all, Geralt probably had noticed Jaskier’s absence and assumed he’d gone to take a piss like Xavier. That's probably where he went as well.

Therefore, everything’s fine.

An annoying little anxiety monster reared itself to argue that everything _wasn’t_ fine because he _hadn’t_ been going to take a piss and sleepwalking is _still_ a flimsy explanation! Fleetingly he also wondered, absurdly, whether Geralt had also sleepwalked out of camp, judging by his bedraggled appearance. That’s when he sternly shoved all that anxiety and paranoia back down. Because seriously? Synchronized sleepwalking? Right. He’s definitely still tired…

Thankfully, bigger problems soon arose.

“Ah, bloody ball sacks!” 

A yell echoed around camp, prompting everyone to drop what they were doing and race to see what all the commotion was about. They all flocked at the edge of a slope, finding Yarpen stood a little of the way down beside a motionless, twisted, body. The body of Sir Eyck. The congealed blood smeared across his neck confirmed enough without Yarpen shaking his head to officially confirm the loss. Immediately it became obvious this wasn’t a recent doing, considering Eyck’s trousers were bunched around his ankles indicating this happened shortly after he excused himself last night.

“Who slits a man’s throat while he’s relieving his bowels? Is nothing sacred anymore?” He commented, disturbed, to say the least. 

“Fuck.” Yennefer swore and stormed away.

He swallowed hard enough to hear his throat click. That could very easily have been him lying dead in a ditch. Sir Eyck separated from the group and now he’s dead. Similarly, Jaskier wandered off alone (albeit unwillingly). If the killer had seen him staggering so vulnerably would they have… Jaskier didn’t even want to think about it.

Geralt grimaced at the body for a moment longer before trudging after Yennefer. Everyone seemed eager to move along relatively soon now so he turned to go collect his lute and doublet, nearly crashing straight into Téa and Véa who stood unseemly close to him with their blades resting on their shoulders. Jaskier’s hazy mind registered the swords before the faces.

“Flippen heck! Personal _space_.” He shrieked with a hand flying to his chest. Once his startled heart and nerves settled, he squeezed through them to be on his way. Much to his surprise, they wordlessly flanked him, standing so close to him they were essentially shoulder to shoulder. “Uh…not to sound obtuse but I…is…am I missing something?”

At that, Téa and Véa searched out Borch, who gave a short nod of approval. Only then did they stop this strange _escorting_ business and moved away to sheath their swords.

He faltered entirely. “I…um…what?”

“Call it a precautionary measure,” Borch answered with a knowing wink, guiding Téa and Véa away to gather their own belongings. 

Jaskier blinked slowly. A _what now?_

* * *

Mistrust spread like a disease. It wormed its way through the teams, widening the divisions further and clutching at everyone’s nerves. Though, many had a fair assumption of who might have murdered Sir Eyck, if the numerous pointed glares sent towards the Reavers were anything to go by. 

“We’re halfway to the dragon's lair, but it’s getting dangerous. We cannot continue like this.” Véa voiced her concern, and Jaskier didn’t know how she had any damn inkling that they were halfway to the top when so far all he'd been using was guesswork.

Yarpen nodded, slowing to a stop and clasping his iron stick. “The warrior woman is right. Someone killed that self-righteous fud, and it wasn’t any of us. Somebody’s not playin’ fair. Our people used to mine these mountains. We know a shortcut that will cut half a day off our journey. Let the Reavers take the long way around. We’ll nab the treasure before they even set foot in the cave. We’ll watch each other’s backs until we reach the next peak, then every man for himself. What say ye?”

“Let’s go,” Borch said with an easy smile, opening up his arms in agreement. 

“Aah!”

At that, they all diverted from the path the Reavers were heading up.

“Go on. I’ll catch up.” Geralt told him, swiftly moving to stride after Yennefer who continued up the mountain ignorant to Yarpen’s whole shortcut speech.

Jaskier stood watching him go with an uncomfortable weight landing back on his chest. Perhaps deep down he’d secretly been hoping Yennefer would be forced to go the long way. Or perhaps…he’s getting a little tired of seeing Geralt walk away.

Their argument from yesterday went unaddressed, but everything hadn’t naturally returned to normal like Jaskier hoped it would. It was wrong and right and awful. And Jaskier’s getting frustrated. He doesn’t know how to patch things up – especially when Geralt won’t let him come close to trying. He hadn’t attempted apologising again after yesterday’s disaster, mainly because he couldn’t see an angle of this where he didn’t piss the man off any further.

And honestly? He’s starting to suspect there might be more to this than the Law of Surprise because that alone cannot possibly beget this much disarray. It just can’t. Yes, Geralt has a rocky past concerning the Law of Surprise _blah, blah, blah_ , but it’s not like this situation is even moderately comparable to Princess Pavetta’s betrothal party! What Jaskier said the other night was nothing more than a daft joke. It’s not like it even counted.

Well…

No. It _didn’t_. It didn’t and that’s final!

…

But even in a hypothetical world where It _did_ count then so what? Would that honestly be so awful? There were worse people out there to receive the Law of Surprise from, that’s for damn sure. If he’d received it from say…one of the Reavers then maybe he’d have a justifiable reason to be throwing a strop! So Geralt should count himself lucky. But no. He’s essentially having a temper tantrum over the mere prospect of gaining…a what? A song Jaskier is yet to compose? What could Jaskier, the humblest of bards, _possibly_ have to give that would be so terrible?

Geralt knows that it didn't count though...right? Of course he does. Which means ultimately Geralt’s either being profoundly rude or something else is amiss. Jaskier’s list of problems is rapidly running out of room to add any more at this point.

After staring for well over thirty seconds he took a deep breath, gave a curt nod to nobody in particular, and forced his legs to swivel around and follow after everyone else. Borch, Téa and Véa had graciously waited for him – Borch offering a warm smile as he approached which he didn’t exactly have the spirit to return but curled his lips upwards anyway. There’s no need to drag others down into a funk with him.

As they continued, his thoughts started spiralling. No matter how tirelessly he constructed elaborate rationalisations as to why it’s really not a problem if Geralt went after Yennefer, it still bothered him like an itch he simply couldn’t scratch, becoming more and more intolerable as time progressed. And if he’s being perfectly honest with himself, this wasn’t an unfamiliar itch either. He could probably pinpoint the first time he ever felt it flare like an ugly rash inside of him; Rinde, six years ago.

But you know what? It’s fine. Predictable. Normal even.

Then, of course, that pesky, little, anxiety monster popped back into existence to not so gently remind him that nothing about this damn quest is normal. From Hirikka’s to dragons to arguments to sleepwalking to murder.

_Oh, don’t forget the part where you started hearing voices!_

A cold shiver pinched up his spine as he recalled the ghostly whisper he’d heard at the bottom of the mountain. Did he actually hear that? Because at this point, he’s more than happy to mark himself down as a potential lunatic. Maybe that would save him from the _drama_ that is his life. Unfortunately, Jaskier had started connecting dots. And the two formidable dots he happened to discover a potential connection between was Geralt’s peculiar claim about trees having ears and the creepy ghost voice. If trees could have ears then maybe they could have mouths too! How’s he supposed to know when Geralt continues to forever be stingy with the damn details!?

But…if those two things were connected then that meant the voice was real. If it was real then Jaskier hadn’t just been delirious or daydreaming. If it was real then-

_No. Nope. Not real._

He ran his thumb repeatedly over the leather strap supporting his lute, trying to take his mind elsewhere. He couldn’t bring himself to open up that whole new can of worms. Even thinking about it felt like a dangerous thing to do. And it scared him. So he scowled and shoved aside the concern.

In fact, you know what? He didn’t _need_ to be carrying all these problems. So screw ghost voices. Screw trees. Screw Yennefer. Screw the Hirikka (but may it rest in peace). Screw Sir Eyck (but may he also rest in peace). Screw Geralt. Screw _himself_. Screw age-old customs. Screw destiny-

Like a small _‘fuck you’_ from the divines, his foot snagged on a well-placed stone in the midst of his mental rampage and his whole body pitched forwards. A startled yelp gripped his throat, arms not receiving the command to shield the rest of him and instead tangling around his lute to save that instead.

Before he could meet a humiliating fate, a pair of strong arms shot out and caught him. Disorientated he latched onto his saviour for support, floundering with his legs to get himself upright again. 

“Steady as you go, bard.” Came Borch’s voice.

Jaskier’s head snapped upwards, realising he had a death grip on the man’s gambeson and quickly pushing away to straighten himself.

“Shit. Thank you. I was a million miles away there.” 

“Yes, I could see that.” Borch chuckled, the concern in his eyes melting. Distantly Jaskier felt a little impressed Borch had managed to catch him at all. Suppose he must be stronger than he looked. “You’d do well to watch where you step on these slopes, taking a tumble will do you no good. Not while carrying such precious cargo.”

With that Borch gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and kept going.

…?

“Oh!” He chimed as the penny dropped, trotting eagerly after him. “You mean sexy. Yeah, she is rather special, isn’t she?” He sighed fondly, holding his lute up for better show. “Rest assured, she’s never suffered so much as a scratch while in my care. I take great caution – well, okay, apart from this one time we encountered a griffin. A griffin! I know. Unimaginable. Anyway, I’m telling you the feathery beast nearly abducted my poor girl with its ginormous claws and all I could do was scream bloody murder at it. Truly terrifying.”

The memory from years ago trickled back into mind. He ducked his head to hide the shy smile spreading across his lips upon recalling how Geralt went completely ballistic trying to stop a frenzied Jaskier from climbing up a tree to rescue his precious lute. Safe to say that particular incident ended in a long lecture and an unconscious griffin. Though, now that he thought about it he’s not entirely sure how his lute managed to survive such a predicament and come out the other end still looking as spectacular as the day Jaskier got it.

Borch nodded with underlying puzzlement. “I see…well, might I ask what has your head stuck in the clouds? Dare I say your usual buoyancy is lacking today?”

“Oh.” A glower dragged down his entire expression. “It’s nothing.”

“If you say so.”

A whole beat of silence passed.

“It’s just-“ he started back up. “- Sir Eyck, you know?”

“Ah, yes. It’s a shame what happened to that knight. Gods rest his soul.”

“A tragedy.”

“Indeed.”

“Utterly unjust.”

“Mm.”

“Completely unjust, actually. I mean he didn’t even get a chance. Or a second chance for that matter.”

"I suppose not."

“And _personally_ , I think everybody deserves to be given a second chance. I mean for goodness sake we all make mistakes. And sometimes we make ridiculously stupid drunken mistakes but that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve to be given a second chance.” He stressed, a wave of newfound anger overcoming him. “And it’s not like I – _he_ did anything wrong in the first place! Or at least nothing to warrant this.”

Confusion blotched over Borch’s features as the man scratched his neck. “Well, no-“

“And now everything’s awkward isn’t it!?” He exclaimed, arms flailing outwards. “Because there isn’t an ounce of trust any more. And it’s – it’s – do you want to know what it is?”

“I –“

“It’s a bunch of bollocks! That’s what it is. Bollocks, I tell you. Do you know how many second chances I’ve given out? I’ve lost count. But that’s what friends do. They forgive each other.”

“I didn't realise you felt so passionately about your friendship with Sir Eyck.” Borch managed to get in. “Or that you, in fact, _had_ a friendship with Sir Eyck.”

That stumped Jaskier into a short silence, realising that his mental rampage from earlier had bled into a verbal rampage. 

Now that he’s had the time to properly reflect over everything, the only (unhelpful) conclusion he’s drawn is that friendships are like china plates. His and Geralt’s one is white with little flowers etched around the rim; dandelions, roses, daisies, the lot. But that plate got dropped and now it’s cracked – on the verge of shattering. It’s still able to hold food and function as a plate would do, however without addressing the issue the cracks are only going to worsen and start contaminating food with loose shards of china. Effectively worsening things. Nobody wants to eat shards of china in their food!

So, taking that elongated, excessively complicated, analogy into account, either he needs to find a new plate or repair the old one. How the fuck does one repair a china plate? Jaskier’s a bard, not a fucking potter.

He side-glanced Borch.

“Borch…you are old and…wise. You’ve seen, heard and experienced many extraordinary things so you must know a great deal, yes?” He began awkwardly, tugging at the strap of his lute. “Let’s say you broke a - no. Sorry. Let’s say you upset somebody by doing something that could be considered a _tad_ inappropriate and now this somebody won’t be charitable enough to gift you with a second chance _despite_ you having offered a profuse apology. What might you do in such a predicament?”

Borch shot him a concerned glance. “Well, to my understanding, friendship is supposed to be a two-way street requiring effort from both sides. However, considering Sir Eyck has passed I believe it’s safe to assume that no apology is expected from you anymore, but if you still truly wish to-“

“No. No. Sorry. Not him. This is…something else. Someone else.”

“Oh, I see…” Borch hummed, idly thumbing the rectangular pendant hanging from his neck. “Such a dilemma entirely depends on what it is that you did. If this ‘inappropriate behaviour’ you refer to alludes towards the subject of procreation then I strongly recommend that you and your significant other-“

“What!?” He squawked in alarm. “No! Gods, no. There is no significant other – or – or procreation. Why in all that’s high and mighty was that you’re first assumption? Doesn’t matter, I don’t want to know. Anyway,” awkwardly he cleared his throat, “I’ve landed myself in a bit of a pickle with a certain Witcher friend of ours and it’s made things somewhat peculiar between us.”

“Ah, yes, I have been wondering what might have caused the evident gap between the pair of you."

“Gap? _Gap_!? It’s becoming a bloody chasm at this rate.” He exclaimed, sending a nervous smile towards one of the dwarves who looked back quizzically at all the noise. “I just think he’s overreacting.”

“Forgive my curiosity, but may I ask what about…?”

“Alright well…I may have…” He made an uncomfortable noise and stretched out his collar. “ _May_ have in a very drunken manner given him the Law of Surprise and now he barely speaks with me.”

Borch stared.

And stared.

And –

Abruptly the old man threw back his head and exploded with laughter. Jaskier was so caught off guard by the reaction he halted. Borch hunched over, clutching at his chest and wheezing out laughs that made Jaskier mildly concerned the man was dying rather than laughing.

After a good ten seconds of enduring this, he huffed and crossed his arms. “Well, at least somebody finds the joke in it amusing.”

It took one of the dwarves getting irritated by their delay and shouting for them to hurry up before Borch started gathering himself again.

“I’m sorry – oh, dear me I do apologise, my dear boy,” Borch said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Of all the things I expected you to say…” he dissolved into another chuckle, making half-hearted attempts to compose himself. “I suppose that does explain the sour mood of our Witcher.”

“And he’s overreacting, isn’t he?”

“All things considered I’d say that’s debatable.”

“What? But I didn’t…” He shook his head. “Alright fine. How am I supposed to fix this? I’ve already apologised and that didn’t go down as well as I might have hoped. In the grand scheme of things, it was just a joke, so I fail to see the reasoning behind him making such a big deal of things and treating me worse than the dirt on the bottom of Roach’s hoof!” 

“Come now, I wouldn’t argue he’s being unkind. Perhaps you simply aren’t accustomed to being away from the center of the stage, dear bard.”

“Yes, well…sort of comes with the job.” He grumbled, “Besides when Yennefer’s around nobody else is allowed on stage.”

Borch tilted his head pensively. “It bothers you when he’s with her?”

“You’re saying It doesn’t bother _you_? He’s…he’s _fraternising_. You of all people should be bothered considering it’s you who hired him.”

“Fraternising?”

“Yes. Exactly. You want to be the one to slay this dragon, correct? She’s the competition.”

A flash of quiet amusement creased the edges of Borch’s features as he digested those words.

“With that logic, one might say we’re fraternising with these dwarves by accepting their invitation to accompany them through this shortcut. If anything, I’d call it good sportsmanship. And I have my doubts that Yennefer of Vengerburg is here to win herself a Vassal State.” Borch reasoned with him, and annoyingly that made sense. “Regardless, Geralt watches out for you more than you may yet realise. I think the issue here lies with a bit of misconception. The Law of Surprise is many things, but it’s not to be taken as lightly as a –“

“Południca!” 

One of the dwarves, Xavier, riled and intemperate, charged off into the shrubbery with his axe held well above his head ready to attack. The pair of them paused, shared a confused look, then rushed to catch up with everyone from where they’d fallen behind.

“What is it?” Jaskier asked as they neared. 

Yarpen, who’d gone in after the rogue dwarf, worked to drag Xavier back out by the scruff of his jacket. “You’re looking for trouble you are!”

“Not a Południca.” Borch answered Jaskier.

“He’s been prattling on about this fuckin’ Południca for ten years now,” Yarpen growled and gave Xavier a firm slap on the back of the head. “It’s a fuckin’ myth, you shithead.”

“I know what I saw!”

“Yeah, I do and all. Some poor lass minding her own business!”

“Are you callin’ me a liar?”

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t callin’ what you say the truth am I!?”

“Whoa – alright - okay, let's take a second and calm down,” Jaskier interjected before their headbutting could evolve into an all-out fight. “What are we talking about? What’s a Południca?”

The dwarves continued to glare at one another, some of their comrades sniggering in the background indicating this type of thing has happened before. 

“An old hag. A beautiful woman. Perhaps a 12-year-old lass. They come in all sorts of deceptive shapes.” Xavier explained, shifting his eyes warily over their surroundings. “They’re bad omens, I’m tellin' you. Always carrying ‘round a giant scythe to decapitate victims who can’t answer their riddles. The legend goes if you see one you ain’t ever gonna escape until you answer.”

Yarpen scoffed, digging his stick into the ground. “Which don’t matter ‘cause it’s a myth.”

“It ain’t!”

“Where’s your proof then?”

“My own two eyes! Got all the proof I need right here!” Xavier yelled, tapping his temple and shrugging Yarpen off him. “Whatever. Don’t matter what you believe. I saw her out there. A woman standing right there.” He pointed over to the vacant shrubbery swaying innocently in the breeze.

“Think you’re losing your damn mind.” Yarpen shook his head. “Where’s your Południca gone? Nobody’s out there now, how’d you explain that?”

“Oh! Lady Midday!” Jaskier chimed, snapping his fingers in realisation. Surprisingly the action caught everyone’s attention. “That’s who you’re referring to. My apologies for being so slow, you see I grew up with this uh… Południca? Being called Lady Midday. I’ve actually studied a number of poems about her. Majority of them are considered to be nonsensical masterpieces wielding linguistic inventiveness of which I could only hope to one day achieve. But the principle of them all comes down to…scaring children away from valuable crops. Come to think of it she’s received a variety of names. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of Południca before. Noonwraith is a popular one. Demon lady. Noonday Witch. Harbinger of darkness-“

“Yes, alright lad we get it.” Yarpen snapped impatiently. “You could have left it at gibberish.”

He sniffed and jutted his chin. “I think you’ll find I said linguistic inventiveness, not gibberish.”

“Whatever. That settles it. Myth. Poem. Legend. Whatever. It ain't’ real.” Yarpen stated, bullishly sure of himself.

Borch sighed and crossed his arms. “It’s incredibly unlikely that whatever you saw was a Południca. According to legend they only haunt cultivated fields, meadows and are prone to making an appearance when the sun reaches its zenith. I can’t imagine why we’d ever encounter one on this mountain, especially while travelling within such a large group.”

Xavier wiped his nose on his sleeve and stepped closer to Borch. “Then who’d I see out there watchin’ us?” he asked, pointing off the path again. “Better yet, _what’s_ out there?”

An uncomfortable silence fell over them.

“We should keep moving,” Véa advised.

“I think that would be best.” Borch nodded grimly.

Yarpen scoffed and shook his head. “You didn’t see shit. Probably a trick of the light. Come on, we keep moving without wasting any more time on fuckin' fairy tales and we’ll make it to the passage before you can say dragon.”

* * *

“Did you kill Eyck?” 

Geralt strode after Yennefer, keeping up with her hurried pace. It was obvious the Witch had no intention of slowing down, determined to reach the dragon's lair before the Reavers did.

“Kill him? That’s rather pedestrian. And you’re the one who’s been staring daggers at him since we arrived.” Yennefer replied over her shoulder. “It was the Reavers. That bastard Boholt killed my escort before he could accomplish the one damn task I needed him for.”

“And what was that?” Geralt asked curiously. Yennefer ignored him. “Yen! What are you really doing here?”

She slowed to a stop, turning to meet his gaze with sunlight coruscating in her purple eyes. “I’m here for the dragon.” She answered truthfully, reflexively licking her lips before adding, “There are certain healing properties it's rumoured to possess.”

“I thought your transformation healed all parts of you?” Geralt responded in confusion.

“At the cost of losing others, yes.”

Realisation dawned upon Geralt, an amused smile forming. “Yennefer… do not tell me you’ve travelled all this way for made-up fertility cures using fresh dragon hearts?”

“They’re not made-up.” She argued stubbornly.

“They are. And seriously? You, a mother?”

“Do you think I’d make a bad one?” 

He paused to dig the bottom of his pack into the ground. “Definitely.” He answered with blatant honesty, only realising how serious she was about this after she turned away to hide her face, staring instead at the view. “Yen… a child? What could you possibly want with a child?”

“They took my choice. I want it back. Not that I’d expect you to understand.”

“I didn’t choose to become a Witcher. Listen, the people who made us. They made us sterile for a lot of reasons. One of the kinder ones is because this lifestyle isn’t suited to a child. What? You were going to summon chaos on kings’ orders in between feeding and naps?”

“Do not patronize me!” She snapped and stormed ahead.

“I’m not.” He barked back, following after her. “I’ve thought about this. Often. And I’d rather use my Child Surprise as bruxa bait than subject it to this life.”

At this she whirled back around, the hem of her fur coat flaring out and disbelief crinkling her features. “What did you just say?”

“Uh…ah fuck.” 

“You have a Child Surprise?” She repeated and he struggled to hold her stare. She laughed brusquely. “Isn’t that rich. You lecture me on made-up cures for having a child, meanwhile you cheat with destiny to steal one.”

“Every time I’m near you, I say more in five minutes than I’ve said in weeks. And I always regret it,” he said back through gritted teeth. Finding himself caught in a conversation he wasn’t comfortable discussing. He sighed to compose himself and changed the topic. “The dwarfs, they’re leading us to a shorter path. Come along.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Geralt didn’t doubt that. He was more than confident that if the Reaver’s so much as looked at her the long way she’d tear them apart without lifting a finger. However, after Sir Eyck and other recent events, he wasn't sure anyone should wander alone on this mountain. 

“You don’t always have to. Come with me.” 

* * *

The so-called shortcut Yarpen spoke so highly of led them astray from the mountain path and through a winding, rocky, cleft. The tight squeezed forced everyone to walk in single file, which didn’t exactly inspire much hope – especially with scree spalling off the walls every five seconds.

Geralt and Yennefer caught up with them within the hour, both standing closer to one another than before meaning they’d likely made amends. Lucky her. Nobody thought to mention the strange Południca figure Xavier supposedly saw, more concerned with navigating through the shortcut.

“Mind the scree fallin’, hear me?” Yarpen called down the line. “Can get a bit rocky round here if it’s windy. Which…it is.”

The wind whistled through the chimney-like passageway, growing stronger as they reached an opening onto a ledge overlooking the surrounding landscape; peaks of mountains poking through swollen clouds that tried bleaching everything to an icy canvass. Jaskier steadied himself as they neared the edge, placing one hand on the rocks and ignoring the high altitude best he could to ease the flipping in his stomach.

For half a second it appeared as though they’d hit a dead-end, and Jaskier was fully prepared to call it a day and head back until he noticed that the path did continue to the right, along a poorly constructed walkway of worn, wooden planks attached to the face of the mountain. His jaw fell for a moment as he tried to decipher whether that was genuinely their way forwards or not. It would be fine if those planks looked like they’d hold more than one person at a time without disintegrating. Oh, and if there wasn't a fatal _drop_ below. 

“We’re here,” Yarpen informed them.

“Yeah, you’re right this is a shortcut…to death.” Jaskier said apprehensively.

Yarpen glared at him. “You wanna beat those Reavers or not?”

_Really couldn’t care less._

“We should turn back.” Geralt suggested, voice indifferent.

“No,” Yarpen argued. “We’re close.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Jaskier asked.

“Tis’ a perfectly fine route.”

“For a dwarf.” Yennefer countered.

“Ah! Stifle your mewlin’. You’ll manage. As long as you don’t look down.” Yarpen cackled and playfully whacked Jaskier as he passed by, stepping onto the rickety planks with the rest of his team. “See you on the other side.”

Jaskier groaned and pressed himself against the rocks. “Yeah, yeah, yes. Uh…ladies first?” He offered, realising to his dismay that he was next in line. Yennefer was having none of it and gave him a firm shove – he definitely didn’t scream. “All right. Yeah. Come on Jask, you’ve got this.”

After taking a few shaky breaths he hesitantly started shuffling across the rickety planks, clinging onto the chain handrail nailed to the wall. It didn’t help that he needed to bend down to get a sufficient grip on it due to the fact this route was originally designed to suit and benefit a dwarf. Which by the way makes this whole thing grossly clever of Yarpen considering the chances of team human making it across this thing alive is shockingly low, meaning the dwarves were potentially eliminating more competition. Sneaky, _sneaky_ fuckers.

 _Good sportsmanship is it Borch?_ He thought bitterly.

Jaskier doesn’t even count as competition here. But screw it, he’s going to make it across. He’s a bard for crying out loud, he’s danced through worse scenarios before and not lost his balance. This will be…a piece of cake…a really…really shitty piece of cake.

Of course, no more than ten steps of the way across, he slips.

Perhaps his foot came down at a funny angle. Perhaps he hadn’t been paying enough attention. Perhaps these planks shouldn’t be used as a bloody pathway in the first place. Either way, the wood splinters beneath his foot and _thank the gods_ he had an iron grip on the chain otherwise he’d have most definitely fallen to a horrific death. His eyes latched onto the sheer drop below as he yanked his leg back to safety. 

“Oh, whoa! Oh, fuck! Oh…” He pressed himself against the side of the mountain, suffocating his grip on the chain until his fingers went white from either the biting chill or lack of blood circulation. “Oh, that is not a good sign. That is _not_ a good sign.”

“Watch your step.” Geralt shouted up the line at him, voice somehow battling its way through the violent wind. Briefly, Jaskier perceived the tone to be worried. Scared even. Then he abruptly changed his mind and decided his ears must be deceiving him, because that doesn’t sound very Geralt, so instead, he translated the tone to be condescending.

Frankly, Jaskier wasn’t in the fucking mood for it.

“Oh, really, Geralt? See I thought I might lose my footing for the heck of it! I thought that might be a fun thing for me to do!” He yelled back.

“Enough.” Yennefer snapped at the both of them.

Squinting through the blusterous wind he carried on, this time testing each step before adding his weight to ensure he didn’t make the same mistake twice. A lot of slow shimmying took place, and after a while, he developed a semi-effective system; test, pause, walk, pause, repeat and hope the end will be in sight soon. The hope part was important. So far that’s the safest way he’s discovered to move along this path. And yeah, maybe that means he’s holding the rest of the team up by being excessively careful and _yeah_ that also means the dwarves are racing on ahead. But you know what? Slow and steady wins the race. Likewise, this path is built for dwarves, not a 5’9 human carrying a lute – which admittedly is proving to a bit of a nuisance to his balance right now. Jaskier certainly doesn’t envy those carrying the weighty supply bags.

_Okay Jask, just get to the top of this fucking mountain, deal with the ostensibly real dragon, and then return to the tavern and order the largest bottle of wine possible. That sounds like a decent plan._

Decent plans are the real myth of this whole adventure.

He _felt_ the boards break before he heard Téa and Véa scream. The vibrations rattled up the walkway and he wobbled hazardously, managing to stabilise himself before looking back over his shoulder. Whatever had disrupted the path affected the others more than him. Borch and the Zerrikanians dangled dangerously between broken planks, holding onto the corroded chain for dear life which Geralt (who thankfully hadn’t fallen) had managed to grab onto, preventing them from dropping any further. That didn’t’ exactly mean Geralt was safe. The Witcher struggled to hold up the weight of the three of them, tilting forwards towards the gap.

“Geralt!” He shrieked, heedless of his own safety as he whirled around in reckless horror over the parlous state of the others.

The Witcher’s head whipped towards them, eyes blazing. “Get back!”

Both Yennefer and Jaskier obeyed in fraught silence.

“Sir Witcher, you will save us yet. But first you must let go.” Borch insisted, arms shaking from holding up the whole of his body weight. 

“No.” Geralt shook his head, a ridiculous sense of self-sacrificing nobility about him, and Jaskier was torn between wanting everyone to survive this and wanting Geralt away from such a dangerous situation. 

The planks beneath them creaked and the giant iron nail supporting the one Geralt was stood on quivered precariously, indicating it had mere seconds remaining before giving out. Jaskier _knew_ these things wouldn’t be strong enough to hold more than one person at a time, and Geralt’s is supporting the weight of three. He opened his mouth to warn Geralt to move when the nail suddenly dropped beneath the plank Geralt was standing on, and the plank-

The plank collapsed.

Fear slammed into his chest, bitter and harrowing, and his heart convulsed painfully trying to deal with the sudden burst of anxiety spiked adrenaline. By some miracle the plank didn’t drop completely, it hung at an angle groaning in despair of its new position. It was one thing to be afraid of himself falling but an entirely different thing to be utterly terrified of Geralt falling – something he hadn’t even considered as a possibility when stepping onto this shortcut to death.

_No. No. No. He can’t fall. He can’t. We haven’t – I need to – I need to apologise properly still and – and I can’t if he – oh, fuck those planks aren’t going to hold for much longer – please don’t break – please hold – please hold – please hold – please hold - I can’t lose him – please -_

Frantically he sent out a jumble on nonsensical prayers to every God he could currently name off the top of his head, desperately hoping the planks were stronger than they looked, pleading that they wouldn’t break.

Yennefer let out a small gasp, evidently battling with the same finite amount of restraint Jaskier was. “Geralt! The planks won’t hold.”

Borch offered Geralt an appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

Without another word, Borch willingly let go of the chain, allowing his body to plummet downwards despite Geralt’s hopeless attempt to reach out and catch him. Wisps of cloud snaked around Borch’s body until he’d been consumed whole, damned by gravity and an ounce of misfortune. Téa and Véa shared an unsure glance before following suit, releasing their hold on the chain and falling as well. Jaskier slapped a hand over his mouth in horror.

Fuck.

The three of them stood mute, staring below at the empty clouds like if they just willed it hard enough their fallen friends would somehow appear once more. Of course, that didn’t happen.

Trepidation seized Jaskier, preventing him from finding temporary relief in the fact the three of them still had two feet on solid ground. How could he find relief in that when any one of them could fall at any given moment? All it would take was one misstep, one strong gust, one stroke of bad luck, and they could _die_. 

“We need to keep moving,” Yennefer told them, being the first to find her voice again. She put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder trying to gently guide him away from the edge. Geralt stiffly complied. Satisfied she turned to face Jaskier, finding the bard gaping dumbly at her. “Jaskier, we need to keep moving.”

“Okay.” He breathed quietly, forelegs trembling as he rotated around to continue in the correct direction. And just because shock’s a bitch and he physically needed the reassurance, he chanced another glance over his shoulder – wind angrily slapping his cheeks and mussing his hair – to check Geralt was really alive. That he was okay. That he hadn’t fallen. 

And Geralt was there but he wasn’t _there_.

The Witcher stared stony-faced at the clouds, barely paying attention to where he was stepping. They hadn’t known Borch, Téa or Véa for very long but losing them still cut deep. 

* * *

They caught up with the dwarves, the end of the shortcut hadn’t been much further – which only added insult to injury knowing they’d been so close to making it without losing anyone. Undeterred by the fact it was painfully obvious they were three members down the dwarves made zero comments and chose to instead search for the next location to make camp for the night. 

Since it had taken them the better half of the day to travel across the plank pathway there wasn’t an awful lot of daylight left to work with. Being well above the timberline by now meant wherever they chose to rest for the evening wouldn’t have the added perk of tree coverage, but the clear skies were promising enough to lower the chances of a downpour. Not that it would affect Yennefer either way with her magical tent of selfishness.

While the dwarves worked to construct multiple makeshift shelters and a singular campfire, Geralt separated from everyone to sit alone on a rock, staring emptily at the surrounding landscape. It didn’t take a genius to guess what might be troubling the man.

See, this is the part where Jaskier should mind his own business. He should write some lyrics before everyone charges off into battle tomorrow – perhaps he could dedicate some to commemorate Borch. Heck, if he’s feeling really generous, he could even add a few about Sir Eyck. That way the tragedies of their deaths would be recorded and people from across the continent would hear of their names and heroic deeds. Or… _ambitious_ deeds. However, all of his inspiration to write kept getting contaminated by burning worry every time Geralt’s gloomy figure snuck into his peripheral vision.

Did Geralt _want_ to be left alone?

Jaskier shifted on his spot beside a cluster of weeds, pondering over the question and tapping his pencil incessantly against his songbook. Contrary to popular belief, the Witcher doesn’t have a heart made of stone. It beats, loves, and grieves like any other. By habit, he can be cold and distant to the point where people only see a darkness hanging around him like a gigantic, thunderous, storm cloud and instinctively they’re threatened by it.

Jaskier noticed the storm cloud at first too.

It never fazed him though. That's the thing about storms, they always come to pass. There's something inspiring in that. Because there’s a light hidden beneath it all, sunshine behind the – okay not _sunshine_ in this case because it’s still _Geralt_ , but there’s a light. Something kind and wonderful and – and _good_. And Jaskier knows that’s true because he’s seen it. Heck, any fool could see it if they really tried to. Geralt’s not the heartless monster people initially perceive him to be. And all that toxic darkness has clung to Geralt like a…well like a leech, ironically. Occasionally, it swallows Geralt whole and he gets lost in the depths of his own self-loathing. Like right now.

Everybody is plagued by that darkness. It’s not a characteristic exclusive to Geralt. There are many ways to overcome it, but sometimes all it takes is a helping hand to guide you back out.

More than once Jaskier caught himself glancing to and fro Yennefer’s tent and Geralt’s lonely figure, wondering when exactly she’d be coming out to console the grieving Witcher. Because that would be her role, right? She’s the one who should be comforting Geralt. Because they’re canoodlers. Surely she’s noticed Geralt’s anguished mood?

Using any piece of romantic literature displaying an idealized version of love as resource material would argue that in a perfect tale this should be Yennefer’s big moment! A perfect tale would have Yennefer swooping in to alleviate Geralt of all his troubles, the pair of them would delve into a disgustingly sappy heart to heart where they’d admit their love for one another, then retreat to her tent for a steamy night of – ehem. Aggressive cuddling. The table is all set for that eventuality so why isn’t she making an appearance!? There’s a fucking _sunset_. This couldn’t be any more cliché even if it tried to be.

However, minutes ticked by where she remained a no-show. In this time Jaskier reached an epiphany of sorts. Friends were supposed to be there for one another too, no matter what, through thick and thin, yada yada. And if Yennefer won’t be there for Geralt then… _fuck it._

Since when has life ever been a perfect tale anyway?

Without giving himself a chance to change his mind, he brusquely got to his feet, dusted down his trousers, and determinedly approached the lone Witcher. His whole body thrummed with nerves as he neared, instinctively rubbing his index finger against his thumb over and over again. There was no need to announce his presence, Geralt would know it’s him, Witcher senses and whatnot. 

Silently he took a seat on the rock, grateful that he isn’t immediately told to leave – which wouldn’t have completely surprised him. A short interval passes where they both simply sat in each other’s company, basking in the peaceful scenery that had no right being so calm after what happened to Borch, Téa and Véa. However, admittedly without the howling winds and icy clouds, the view could be considered beautiful; fading hues of blue and yellow washing over the world as the sun starts to set behind shoulders of nearby mountains.

And he's aware that he’s probably not somebody Geralt wants to speak with right now. He knows they’re not in a good place. Fuck, he wished he never got so mindlessly drunk three nights ago and said those three stupid words that landed him in such a mess, because at least then he’d be able to console Geralt without thinking he was ultimately making matters worse. If he could turn back time, erase mistakes, save fallen friends, do this whole week over again, he would in a heartbeat. But he can’t.

Even if Jaskier thinks the compunction Geralt's putting him through is unfair, this whole 'Law of Surprise' business is clearly important in some way to Geralt, therefore, Jaskier shouldn’t keep trying to inconsiderately brush it under the mat. And if it’s not about the Law of Surprise then…perhaps he should be treading a little more lightly? Hard to say. And he doesn’t want to make a mess of things more than he already has. Geralt’s…beyond important to him in ways that terrify him sometimes. Not because he’s scared of friendship (he’s not Geralt for crying out loud), no, he’s scared in ways that give him hot flashes whenever he thinks about the possibility of losing this piece of his life forever.

Right now, he’s pretty sure it’s hanging on by a thread.

But he refuses, _refuses_ to let Geralt sit over here all alone and blame himself for what happened. Because all that blame will fester away inside him for years to come and feed into that darkness – that’s not what Borch would have wanted.

And letting Geralt do that to himself? That’s something Jaskier can’t do. 

“You did your best. There’s nothing else you could have done.” He said quietly, eyes instantly stinging the second he starts to speak – though he wasn’t entirely sure whether that was down to almost losing Geralt, sorrow for Borch and the Zerrikanians, or a horrible combination of both. He blinked a few times to compose himself. “Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow? That is, if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a…worthy travel companion.”

“Hm.” Geralt almost smiled. Well, more accurately he almost pulled his lips in a vaguely upwards direction.

Jaskier could work with reluctant amusement. 

“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while. Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it? _Life’s too short_.” He mimicked Borch trying to remain light-hearted, but then his expression dropped of its own accord along with his voice, morphing into something much softer. “Do what pleases you…while you can.”

“Composing your next song?” Geralt asked flatly.

Jaskier hung his head. “No, I’m just, uh…just trying to work out what pleases me.”

The funny thing about having a near-death experience (and Jaskier’s had plenty), like nearly falling off the side of a mountain, for example, is that they give you a massive reality check. _Do what pleases you_. Bustling banquets, resplendent clothing, lively dances, honey oatcakes, fine jewellery, spontaneous sex. All the things he likes and enjoys. Are they the things he loves? This hedonistic conundrum is doing nothing to help the headache he's been battling for the past three hours. He fought the urge to side-glance Geralt as the question he asked yesterday popped into mind.

_Why are we even partaking in this hunt? Because we’re certainly not here for the dragon, are we?_

Ah yes, the dragon they’re here to defeat, a legendary beast which plenty of people are ignorant to the very existence of. If he were to compose a ballad of this hunt it would likely be a phenomenal hit, gaining him coin and invitations from nobles, kings and queens and more. Yet there isn’t one word written in his songbook about a dragon – not one word to even indicate they’re on this adventure to slay a dragon. Granted, they’ve not battled said dragon just yet so there’s not much to go on except the poor camping conditions, which wouldn’t make for a very entertaining song now, would it? But even so, he’s not even a little bit motivated to pick up his pencil and write about it. No…all he has are some paltry words about betrayal. So…back to the question at hand…but not why is Geralt here…

Why is Jaskier here?

_You’re like a leech. You feed off everyone else’s efforts for a second-rate song._

Was that true? Was he here to be a leech? Was Geralt right? Would he risk his life stepping onto those wooden planks all in the name of a ‘second-rate’ song? Deep down he knows the answer to that is no. Deep down he also knows that he stepped onto those rickety planks because he’s drawn to danger. He’s drawn to the danger that _is_ Geralt. It’s intoxicating. He’s never seen danger as something frightening or ugly when he’s with Geralt. It’s…beautiful in its own right.

Which is why leech isn’t an entirely appropriate description of him. It’s arguably not a poor one. But as he said, he prefers bumblebee. They take nectar from flowers and turn it into honey. It’s like taking inspiration from events and turning it into a song. Or like taking a Witcher from the grasps of stereotypes and turning him into a hero.

Consequently, Geralt’s now like the…Fisstech he’s addicted to. So, in this moment, more than anything in the world he wants them to be okay. He doesn’t really have the energy, strength, or pluck to express anything theatrically, as much as he’d adore improvising an apology poem for the Witcher, so he’ll have to make do with simplicity. Maybe that’s the best approach anyway.

“Geralt I… the other night…” Geralt’s steely gaze scraped onto him and his stomach _flipped_. Quickly he rose both hands. “Wait! Wait. Please, let me talk? _Please_. Thirty seconds more of your time and I won’t even say the L or S word. Thirty seconds, Geralt, that’s all I ask.”

Oh, _bloody hell_ now he’s begging.

As always, the Witcher remained hard to read.

However, while that may be so, Jaskier is fairly apt in spotting the subtleties in Geralt’s expression. And there’s something there, tucked tightly in the corners of that blank expression, not an angry something, not a happy something, not an annoyed something, not even a sad something. It’s just _something_. It’s becoming unfair how vulnerable Jaskier’s emotions are in comparison since he’s certain his waning confidence is perfectly visible.

He gave Geralt a moment of opportunity to cast him away. When that doesn’t happen, feverish hope splutters in his chest, surprised and warm, and he dared to welcome it instead of smothering it down.

He opened and closed his mouth repeatedly while mentally flicking through endless apology speeches he’d concocted over the course of the journey thus far, trying to pick the best one. The one Geralt deserved and the one what will fix things once and for all. He’s acutely aware Geralt's probably counting to thirty in his head so he really should have planned a bit more in preparation for this before jumping straight into the deep end. He took a few steadying breaths before facing the storm.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That’s it. That’s all he says. In fact, he needs to physically bite his tongue to prevent himself from avalanching into a really long-winded apology because that would only increase the likelihood of provoking another fight like last time. _Simplicity Jaskier. Simplicity_. That doesn’t defeat how agitating it is to bottle up everything else he wants to say. There’s so much more he would say. Should say. But it’s a far cry from what Geralt wants to hear and nothing Geralt hasn’t already heard anyway.

Therefore, instead of giving one of his grand speeches, he holds the steely gaze Geralt has fixed on him in a desperate attempt to prove how genuine he is. Maybe speaking Geralt’s language would be the best way to communicate that.

Silence.

Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid_. Geralt language? What the fuck was he thinking? Abort. Abandon everything. Row back. Regroup. Revisit at a later date. Flee before the delicate balance of peace breaks.

“Ngh – yeah – okay – _alright_ – got it. No more talk about the other night. You needn’t say anything. Understood.” He rushed to correct his mistake, then paused halfway through and quickly added, “Except, you know, we nearly both fell off the side of a mountain today so I really think we should – if you're willing to – we should talk– “

“Stop.”

“But-“

“You want forgiveness. You have it.”

“I just – wait _really_?” He boggled in surprise then promptly cleared his throat. “Oh. I mean good. That’s good. Great even. Wow. Uh… you’re serious?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, expression softening as the tension around his eyes eased and for the briefest of moments, he just looked tired. “It’s fine.”

Jaskier only just managed to hold back the hope roaring excitedly inside of him. “Well, that’s a relief because my last remaining plan was to get down on two knees and beg for forgiveness.” He said then realised the implications of that and blanched. “Joking. Which I will certainly stop doing.”

“That would be wise.”

“…Now that we’re on what I assume to be moderately good terms, I think it’s fair of me to say I didn’t partake in this hunt to be – and I’m paraphrasing here – a parasite on all your noble efforts. So that little comment of yours yesterday was just a whole barrel of impertinence.”

Geralt winced. “I was pissed.”

“No, really?” he gasped sarcastically, slapping a scandalised hand against his chest. “I couldn’t tell.” The suffocating tension started to loosen between them. “But ah…I can’t say I was entirely mindful of your feelings either so…for that I apologise too.”

“You can stop apologising now.” 

“As you wish.” Jaskier chuckled softly, deciding to give the man a respite from dealing with emotions. “Hey, quick question, unrelated topic, on a scale of dragons to cheerful Witchers how real is a Południca?”

Geralt blinked at him. “What?”

“You know, a Południca. Lady Midday. Noonwraiths. Are they total baloney or real?”

The Witcher grunted in thought. “I've never personally encountered one before. In my book, they're either extinct or...they don't exist. Why?”

“No reason.” He smiled as a warm gooey feeling swelled inside his chest. He bashfully bumped his shoulder against Geralt’s. “So, friends again?”

“Hm.”

That’s something Jaskier could translate. He’s spent enough time with Geralt to know the _‘Geralt’s Hm’s’_ handbook off by heart which means he knows for a fact that this particular _hm_ meant _yes_. Jaskier resisted the urge to punch the air in victory.  
  
The victory was shockingly short-lived.

While it’s grand that they’re back to being two peas in a pod he can’t just leave it at that. There are still things Jaskier can’t wrap his head around, irregularities that simply don’t add up, and the only person who potentially has any explanations is sat beside him.

“May I ask you something?” He began, doubt clawing at his insides. They’d only just become friends again and he didn’t want to ruin that after ten fucking seconds. Geralt grunted in response so he took that as another yes. “Is there anything else going on that you would like to discuss?”

“Anything _else_?” Geralt repeated, eyebrows furrowing.

“Perhaps I’m being unreasonably paranoid. I don’t mean to make _more_ mountains out of molehills, but I feel obliged to ask anyway because believe it or not I haven’t been immune to all of the peculiar happenings of this trip. So, yes, is there anything else going on that you’ve failed to mention?” He elaborated, keeping his tone casual. “Or…anything at all that’s bothering you? I’m happy to lend an ear. Anything ranging from…gosh, I don't know…Yennefer... Borch…” _sleepwalking, ghost voices, ears on trees_ …. “…anything. You know I’m on your side, don't you? Always.”

The question hovered like a fly buzzing in the air between them, one Geralt clearly wanted to swat away but couldn't bring himself to. Jaskier searched Geralt’s expression and found it edged with exhaustion. He _sees_ the cracks in the defences. _Knows_ his gut instinct is right about this - that something else going on. But he needs Geralt to say it. To stop keeping him at arm’s length.

These unbearably perplexing past few days have left him floundering blindly in the unknown for answers and he can’t keep pretending everything is fine. 

“Geralt, talk to me. What’s going on?” He pressed persistently.

 _Let me in._ He sent out a silent plea with his eyes. _Stop shutting me out. Let me help. Whatever it is let me help._

The Witcher set a hard stare on the ground, lips tight and brows pinched. It’s clear there’s something he wants to say but can’t seem to figure out how to. Which is fine. Jaskier doesn’t mind waiting so long as they’re making progress. As he waits, he'll busy himself by idly tracing the sharp line of Geralt’s jaw.

Then the swirling conflict in Geralt’s eyes reaches a decision and the gates slam down once more. “No.”

“No?” he parroted, half surprised. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean no.” 

“What, no as in-“

“No _as in_ there's nothing else going on that _should_ concern you.” Geralt snapped, wrenching his head Jaskier's way to glare him down.

 _Ahah_! But there is _something_. 

“Alright grumpy guts. No need to get your unfortunate, unwashed undergarments in a bunch.” He muttered with his chin dipping towards his chest, accepting defeat on the matter for now. His expression quickly morphed into a scowl. “- _Which_ by the way I have a bone to pick with you about! I’m pretty sure thanks to your absurd lack of care for personal hygiene I’m coming down with a bug. It’s like the germs couldn’t have you so they hopped onto me instead.”

The air shifted completely. 

“You’re ill?” Geralt asked with concern flooding into his tone.

He leaned back, resting the palms of his hands on the rock behind him. “A little under the weather is all. Stomach pains. Nothing as drastic as Sir Eyck of course, I mean the man probably caught himself dysentery after eating that Hirikka. Not that uh... it’ll be a problem to him anymore.”

Geralt’s shoulders hunched impossibly further. “Is that all?”

Jaskier rose an eyebrow. “Um, I suppose? A few headaches here and there, but that’s not exactly life-threatening. It's really nothing worthy of any worry.”

Geralt looked like he’d sucked a lemon at this point. “We can find a healer in Barefield.”

“We?” He mused, a little humoured. “Look, while I’m grateful for this, uh, uncharacteristic concern, I don’t think I’m in dire need of a healer over a bit of nausea and a recrudescing headache. Honestly, I only mentioned it so I’d have a gateway into convincing you to take a bath once we return. Besides, I’m sure it’s nothing a bit of food and rest won’t fix.”

That may be an understatement. After all, Jaskier’s pretty sure that irregular bouts of nausea, endless fatigue, and headaches that come and go should be at least a mild worry. It’s not life-threatening but it’s…concerning. Mainly because these symptoms aren’t going anywhere and are gradually worsening if anything. And it’s no longer plausible to blame them on a hangover, so he must have contracted a bug of some kind or overworked himself. 

And that’s _without_ including hearing voices, missing memories and sleepwalking.

So yeah, it’s an understatement. But to circumvent the weird amount of worry coming from Geralt he played the intensity of it all down. If Geralt thought Jaskier was seriously sick he’d probably see him as even more of a liability. 

An uncomfortable urge to change topic overcame him.

“Anyway…what’s the plan now? Will we still partake in this hunt to honour Borch or – Geralt?”

The Witcher was on his feet, hastily gathering his swords and muttering something vaguely incoherent that sounded an awful lot like ‘ _fuck_ ’.

“Hey, Geralt, what-“ He slid off the rock onto his feet, just as Geralt started marching away. “Where are you going!?”

He got ignored. 

All Jaskier could do was watch, hands on his hips, as Geralt strode further away, straight through camp, up the slope, and to Yennefer’s tent. A sudden sharp knot twisted in his stomach. Without sparing a glance back, Geralt dumped his belongings outside the tent and pushed his way through the opening, which thrashed wildly in the wind. Soon after he disappeared inside the flap fastened itself up.

Slightly stunned, he sank back down to the rock, staring stupidly at the white tent as if it was the sole cause of all his problems. What…in the holy hell just happened? 

Buried deep within the teeming mess of his very existence a nonsensical, covetous, whim screamed in tired frustration, sending coils of unease winding repeatedly around his heart until it tangled so tight it hurt. And he hated it. Hated on an astronomical level how fucking predictable Geralt going to Yennefer’s tent had been. It’s the perfect tale, right? Hadn’t he seen that coming? Hadn’t he known the second Geralt felt moderately better about himself he’d end up in Yennefer’s arms? Didn’t Jaskier say to do what pleases you?

The stinging in his eyes returned and he stubbornly jerked his head away, fixing his gaze on the view and trying to swallow everything back. Did he fuck up? Is this because he mentioned being ill? Oh- _oh_! Fuck, he messed up again, didn’t he? By blaming Geralt for it. That had only been a joke! Well, kind of. But- shit. Right after going over to stop Geralt from blaming himself about Borch?

_Way to go, Jask. Real smooth._

The forgiveness felt worthless. Had he even earnt forgiveness or had Geralt said that to get him to stop talking about the other night?

The distance between them stretched wider despite the so-called reconciliation, and he felt it with a painful yearning. He might as well be fighting against the whole ocean trying to get back in Geralt’s good graces, struggling against merciless currents pulling them further and further apart no matter how desperately he fought it.

At least now he had a pretty definitive answer to his big ole ‘ _why are we here_ ’ question from yesterday. It’s one he already knew, of course. Might have been nice to hear Geralt admit it in words but… as the saying goes, actions speak louder than words.

“Yennefer then.” 

* * *

_“Her current is pulling you closer_

_A charge in the hot, humid night_

_The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool…”_

His song drifted out, smooth and soft, with an almost imperceptible pinch of dejection interfering with the inflection of his voice. His fingers lazily danced between strings, drafting the outline of a tune until it fizzled out alongside his motivation.

_"Better stay out of sight…”_

He scoffed and hung his head. A few hours had dragged by since his conversation with Geralt and he hadn’t moved from the rock, sitting cross-legged on top of it and wallowing in self-pity. Which only brought him dry amusement over the fact he’s now the loner sitting on a rock.

“Sheesh, what’s got you so down in the dumps, Morning Glory?” Xavier’s voice interrupted his highly important wallowing session. He turned to find the dwarf sauntering over. Oh, perfect. Wonderful. _Fantastic_. Just what he needs right now...

Jaskier pursed his lips. “For the last time that’s not what I was doing earlier.”

“Whatever you say, _Morning Glory_.” Xavier slumped down on the dirt beside the rock, sending Jaskier an unsure glance - probably because Jaskier's face was so dirty that tear tracks were faintly visible. Just because he'd kept it together for Geralt that didn't mean he felt nothing for their fallen friends. The only difference was he'd had to grieve alone. “You need a...?"

Xavier fished a grubby rag out of his pocket and offered it over. Tears welled in his eyes again but he blinked them back and nodded gratefully, accepting the rag and wiping his face over with it. Fixing his appearance without a mirror just wasn't going to happen, and frankly, this rag wouldn't be working any wonders with how filthy it is - but he appreciated the gesture.

"Thank you." 

"Sorry ‘bout your pals. Thought for sure that old codger and those warrior women would make it all the way to the dragon's lair with us.”

“It is what it is. I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing them very long but…” Jaskier sighed, resting his lute on his lap and straightening to compose himself. “Anyway, what brings you to my gloomy corner of camp? Under different circumstances, I’d be more than happy to organise a show for all your entertainment but given recent events, I’m afraid it might be inappropriate. Also, we wouldn’t want to attract any monstrous guests. However, should you so desire a number of melancholic tunes then just say the word.”

Xavier snorted. “Nah, I’d rather dig my own grave. Came over here ‘cause the fellas kept poppin’ off about the whole Południca thing. Figured you’d make better company ‘till they’ve stopped being _such fucking shit heads about it._ ” his voice rose into a harsh yell towards the end and he lent around the build of the rock to glare at his fellow dwarves.

They all flipped the bird at one another.

Being in the middle of it all, Jaskier awkwardly shifted and habitually drummed his fingers against his lute. “Sounds positively dreadful.”

“Aye, well fuck ‘em I say. And fuck whatever’s got you mopin’ around. Readin' between the lines, I’d wager you could use some company right about now as well. Am I right?”

His expression soured. “I do not mope.” 

“Riiiight. ‘Course you don’t.”

“Though I do appreciate the company. It gets somewhat tedious counting stars after a while.” He forced a smiled so that he didn’t come across as rude. “You know, it’s funny, I made a similar mistake to you. See three days ago I thought dragons were nothing more than a myth, this hunt is thus far proving me woefully wrong.”

“Are you sayin’ I’m wrong?”

“I – well – yes. No. Kind of? I’m saying it’s perfectly natural to be wrong about things. That’s how we all grow and learn as people. I only brought it up because I presumed our shared experience of unsound knowledge would be something to bond over – ah – talk about.”

Xavier huffed and started picking up stones from the ground to fiddle with. “Listen here, just ‘cause you were wrong about something that doesn’t mean I am too. If we’re going by your logic, chances are I’m right anyway. Why’s it so hard to believe in a Południca when we’re huntin’ a dragon?”

Jaskier tilted his head in thought. “I suppose it’s difficult to believe in a creature that’s never been seen before.”

Xavier scoffed and threw the stone toward the edge of the mountain. “Here I was thinkin’ you of all people on this blasted hunt would be a bit more open-minded.”

“I am! But I’ve only ever heard of them in tales, poems, and songs.”

“Of which must have been inspired by somethin’, right?”

“Okay, not every piece of literature is based on something true. I of all people should know that.” He countered, finding himself surprisingly enjoying this conversation.

“That so, _bard_? Tell me something, that song of yours yer workin' on, the one making you mope about like a damn lovesick puppy, s’everything in that true?”

_I’m weak, love, and I am-_

Jaskier blinked.

Xavier’s grin was outright feral, his eyes twinkling in the moonlight. “I stand by my damn point.”

“I suppose…it’s a version of the truth.” He answered carefully.

“Your version?”

“…To an extent.” He offered lamely. “It’s my…interpretation of something. And…I guess it’s also…” he cleared his throat a few times. “Well regardless, that still isn’t incontestable proof that every poem or song in existence is a gospel of truth. I mean you have to take the authenticity of any piece of literature with a pinch of salt because even if the author is trying to portray what they perceive as the truth it’s still going to be a biased version of it because it’s _their_ version of it. Don’t even get me started on _bending_ the truth, I mean I practically invented the art of it. The point is, some poems and songs should just be considered…fiction. Lady Midday or…a Południca is a creature initially invented to scare children. There’s no tangible evidence to validate its existence.”

“Speak fucking common, would you?”

“I am-“

“I know.” A dismissive hand was waved at him. “Fine, there ain’t any proof. Yet.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at the dwarf’s persistence. Even if Jaskier didn’t necessarily see things the same way he could still respect Xavier’s dedication to his own viewpoint. And he did enjoy a good debate.

“Humour me, why are you so unwaveringly convinced they’re real?”

“Just 'cause.”

“That’s not really a cogent answer. Your only proof is that you claim to have seen one ten years ago. How are you so sure it wasn’t just a normal woman in a field? What makes you so sure it was a creature of legend?”

“My gut is tellin’ me so,” Xavier stated defensively. “Look, I get it, probably sound like I’m talkin’ out my arse, don’t I? Well, that don’t matter. ‘Cause one day you’ll all come runnin’ back when you figure out that I’m right. Just you wait.”

“And…you believe you saw one on this mountain?” He asked sceptically. “Borch said if they do exist, they dwell in cultivated fields, not mountains. Which stays true to the literary depictions of them as well. And I don’t mean to burst your bubble or anything, but I consulted with Geralt about this and he’s never even encountered one before. He’s kind of the expert on this sort of thing.”

“ _Agh_ , you and your fuckin’ Witcher. Ain’t gonna show itself to a monster hunter is it?” Xavier argued back, throwing another stone. “And I saw something earlier. Maybe I’m wrong ‘bout it being a Południca, didn’t get a decent enough look at the sneaky bugger. But I ain’t lying when I say I saw something out there.”

“Ominous.” He muttered.

“Now, your turn to humour me. If you ain’t gonna share your sob story of the evening, then how about you tell your good pal Xavier why you risk your life followin’ around that monster hunter for a few songs. Me and the fellas been beating our brains out about it. Nearly damn fell to your death earlier.”

Jaskier bristled. “Well, not everything is _about_ lyrics.” 

“Oh-ho, now you’re gettin’ interesting. Did I hit a sore spot there? Come on, cough it up.”

He shook his head, tracing a finger along the swirling golden patterns etched onto the wood of his lute. 

“Even if I did accompany Geralt on countless life-threatening adventures purely to gain some song content, the reasoning behind that would be because he’s maddeningly stingy with providing details of his grand escapades, so I’d have a hard time composing anything if I worked from his paltry descriptions alone. I’ve discovered over the years that it’s far more rewarding to have a firsthand experience and usually it helps to produce a far more lucrative song.”

“But that ain’t the main reason you follow him?”

Jaskier went quiet. A breeze tousled his hair. Behind them, the dwarves continued chatting merrily away while feasting on their dinner, remarkably carefree for folk who were going to battle a dragon in the morning. And up the slope above everyone else, Yennefer and Geralt were tucked away in that stupid white tent. He secretly hoped it was cramped and awful inside. 

“He’s my friend.”

Xavier nodded slowly, seemingly understanding the weight of those words. “Makes you a damn good friend then.”

“I don’t think he’d agree with you on that one.”

“Well…fuck him then, aye?” The dwarf declared which made Jaskier snort in amusement. “I mean, shit, I’d follow Yarpen to the end of the world and back, but only if there were coin in it for me. Don’t get me wrong, he’s my brother and I’ve got his back no matter what, but that’s ‘cause I know he’s got mine."

He exhaled, the finger tracing the golden pattern stopping as the line went beneath the strings. “Friendship is a two-way street.”

“That it is.” Xavier got up and gave Jaskier a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Right, well unless you fancy freezing your balls off sleepin’ over here in the cold, you’re more than welcome to join us over by the fire.”

“Really?” He asked buoyantly, perking up considerably.

“Fuckin’ hell, don’t be so maudlin about it.”

Jaskier smiled gratefully and hopped down from the rock. “Careful, you might hurt yourself using big words like that.”

Xavier snorted and ambled back towards the campfire, sticking his middle finger over his shoulder at Jaskier which instantly had the bard bursting into laughter. It felt like a breath of fresh air to be laughing. He let it ring out into the night, trotting after Xavier with a newfound warmth burrowing in his chest, bittersweet and protective, forcing out all that pestiferous acrimony to be dealt with another day. 

“Aye! Lookie who’s come crawlin’ back.” Yarpen greeted them from his spot propped up against the slope of the mountain, twirling the bone of a rabbit leg between his fingers. “Recruited the odd man out, have ye? Suppose there’s always room for dragon bait on the team.”

“Oh, no, no, I’m not-“ He quickly cut himself off upon realising Yarpen was joking.

For now, he's beyond appreciative that the dwarves welcomed him over to their fire. Jaskier hadn’t even noticed the temperature dropping until Xavier pointed It out. To be fair, if Jaskier had grown too cold he probably would have meandered over here and wormed his way into their company anyway. However, there was something almost endearing about being invited over. It helped fill the void Geralt had ripped out upon abandoning him out here to go be with Yennefer. Rudely abandoned, might he add. At least now he had some company. And you know what? Maybe the dwarves weren’t so awful after all-

“Ey, fellas, toss a bedroll over for Morning Glory, would you?” Xavier hollered over to the group of lounging dwarves.

_Nope. Never mind. Still awful._

With a vexed huff, he crossed his arms. “This slander you insist on spreading is going to completely ruin my reputation.”

“Ah, old Xavy caught you in the act, did he?” Another dwarf said - the one who Jaskier believes goes by the name Yannick Brass. The dwarf then flung a bedroll over – which barely counted as more than a tattered roll of cloth. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Wha – wait no. He didn’t catch me doing anything. There was nothing – I wasn’t-“ He couldn’t believe he was genuinely getting flustered about this – that’s not like him at all. “I was going for a walk.”

Yarpen grinned and flicked the rabbit bone away to disappear somewhere amongst the other sticks and clumps of dirt on the ground. “Hey, what you get up to ain’t any of our business. Not like any of us have the ground to stand on and judge you anyway.”

“Oh, yes, of course, because the whole ‘Morning Glory’ nickname is so incredibly non-judgemental.” He retorted sarcastically, finding his lips betraying him by pulling upwards. “And by the way, you could have at least picked something a little more inventive. I mean I’m aware you’re intending to use it as a euphemism for an involuntary cockcrow boner – which I still didn’t have – but come on Morning Glory? _Really_? That has more association with a group of flowers than it does a man’s twig-n-berries.” 

Xavier barked out a laugh and collapsed onto his own bedroll. “Ain’t helping your case.”

“And whatever happened to the whole ‘you’re secrets safe with me’?” He scowled at Xavier. “Traitor.”

“Does that mean he _did_ nearly catch you in the act or-“ Yannick smirked.

“Oh for-! You’re all assholes. I shouldn’t have left my rock.” He decided, setting his makeshift bedroll down by the crackling fire and trying to organise it as the dwarves sniggered. Well, at least they’re amused. “Though, come to think of it Morning Glory as a nickname is ironic considering _my_ name means-“

“Alright, chop, chop. Stop muckin’ about fellas so we can all get some shut-eye. We don’t want to be dead on our feet tomorrow while facing a bloody dragon, now do we?” Yarpen said sharply, clapping his hands together trying to hustle some action into everybody.

Jaskier had absolutely no intention of being anywhere near the dragon tomorrow, he’ll spectate from afar and offer words of encouragement perhaps. It’s a little exciting actually, the prospect of seeing a dragon. Now that he’s taken a time out from all his Witchery problems and spoken with people who didn’t eat doom and gloom for breakfast, he felt that usual spark of passion for a quest fire up again.

The dwarves grumbled a little and dragged their feet like sulky children, going to check their packs, stoke the fire, and eventually settle down on their bedrolls to pass out. Jaskier nestled down on his own ‘bedroll’ which up close smelt faintly of ale, making his nose crinkle. He could also already feel a rock digging into his side. Gods, what he wouldn’t give to be back at the tavern right about now. As he got comfortable, he hugged his lute to his chest protectively, finding comfort in the familiarity of the item. 

Snores soon began echoing around camp as everyone gradually dropped off. Jaskier’s eyes jadedly flitted upwards to land on the tent. A seething resentment churched inside him just thinking about what was likely happening in there. Geralt seriously needed better taste in partners. Honestly, had Jaskier taught him nothing? How had this even happened?

With a frustrated little sigh, he told his aching heart to shut up and closed his eyes to get some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier. Sweetheart. Darling. Light of the show. I am so sorry for what you're about to go through in the next chapter...unfortunately it's inevitable.
> 
> This chapter and I had a lot of arguments. And I hear you, Geralt's being an asshole. I know. I want to hit him with a shoe too. There weren't going to be any mushy moments but it happened to be Valentine's Day and Jaskier had other plans, so if you squint hard enough you can find a few mushy moments sprinkled in here and there. Totally all Jaskier's fault. You can also find a few references (Family Guy, Shrek and a tiny Drake and Josh one). 
> 
> Did the dwarves just adopt Jaskier? Maybe. Is Borch finding this far too amusing? Maybe. Do I kinda love that? Maybe. 
> 
> Yeah, there's a song in the notes at the beginning. It's just one I listened to a lot while writing this and I know it's super cheese but so is Jaskier. 
> 
> Sorry for how long I took getting this chapter up (hopefully the size makes up for it). My original plan was to have it up on mothers day thinking I was some sort of comedic genius like that - wink, wink, nudge, nudge. But as I said, we had arguments. Also, the world is crazy right now and my motivation went out the window - even though you'd think in lockdown with nothing much to do I'd have plenty of motivation but nope! However, reading through all your lovely comments helped me push through it! So thank you so much :)
> 
> I hope you're all okay and staying safe! Just remember storms come to pass, and if that fails just think about Jaskier's grumpy Witcher doodle. (If you're from the future reading this it's 2020. Google it).
> 
> RIGHT, buckle your seatbelts, the next chapter is...well you know. You've all seen the show. If you haven't...it's a bumpy ride. But hey, at least we'll finally be out of canonland afterwards!


	4. Judge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pssst. I updated the tags. Don't look if you don't want spoilers :)

“Do you hurt? I don’t mean physical pain. They say Witcher’s can’t feel human emotion.” 

Light filtered through small holes of ceramic pots standing either side of the bed, a radiant fire within, steady and bright, relieving the tent of any darkness. On the bed lay Geralt and Yennefer, half tangled in white sheets.

Geralt, lazily propped up by one arm, shrugged. “They say whatever justifies despising our kind.” 

“Huh.” Yennefer breathed, laying on her stomach. “Do you regret it? Becoming a Witcher.”

Geralt sighed. “It’s hard to regret something you didn’t choose.”

“But if the choice had been yours, what would you have done instead? A farmer?” She grinned playfully. “A stableman?”

They both chuckled. “Horses are good company. But if I ever dreamed of being something…other…than what I am…it was too long ago to remember. Did you dream of being a mage?”

“I didn’t have much of a choice either.”

Geralt shuffled on the pillow, apprehension weighing down on him as he considered his next question. “Did you always want to become a mother?”

“I dreamed…of becoming important to someone. Someday.”

“Hm.” Geralt closed his eyes.

“Do I bore you?” She asked, more entertained than offended.

He opened his eyes again and smiled. “Not at all. Before we met, the days were calm, and the nights were restless. But now…you’re important to me.”

Yennefer sat up to faintly trace her fingertips along the ridges of Geralt’s scars, admiring them, before laying back down to get some rest as well. She’d become a constant in his life. Their routine, their way of maintaining a mirage of a relationship, it was something Geralt could understand to an extent. 

Geralt put his trust in very few things. Roach, for example, she never did anything drastically unpredictable. But needless to say, a time had existed where he didn't have Roach accompanying him. There was one item he'd kept on his person for as long as he could remember; a silver, wolf shaped medallion. Geralt put copious amounts of trust in that medallion. It wasn't complicated. It served its purpose by alerting him to the presence of any magical aura's. A highly esteemed tool for a Witcher. In other words, one would call it reliable.

And Geralt liked reliable things. 

What didn’t seem reliable, however, was how the medallion, abnormally so, had started vibrating in desultory intervals around a certain trouble stalked troubadour. 

Reopening his eyes, he observed Yennefer’s peaceful form, vacillating between sharing the anomaly with her or not. If anyone, she’d be able to offer some clarification and succour. 

_‘You lecture me on made-up cures for having a child, meanwhile you cheat with destiny to steal one.’_

Thumbing the medallion, he instead sighed and resigned himself to yet another sleepless night.

* * *

Today would be a good day.

That’s what Jaskier decided upon waking up. Alright, no, that's a blatant lie. The very first thing he decided was that mornings truly were the greatest torment life had to offer. If it were up to him, he’d have them classified as the worst monsters known to this very plane of existence and considering he’s seen a good chunk of monsters in his time he’s pretty sure he’s a reliable source on the matter. After all, he’s got tales for all different kinds of abominable creatures; ghouls, griffins, nekkers, one rather vocal lady who to this day Jaskier remains unconvinced was genuinely a banshee. But mornings? Oh-ho-ho, they’re a different breed of evil altogether.

It took a few groans of displeasure in breaking through the soporific fog clogging his brain, some sluggish shuffling and a buttload of willpower for him to successfully stumble to his feet with all the grace of a newly born fawn. Amid that, he internally cursed (rather colourfully) the sun for its entire bedevilling existence. Who decided it needed to be that bright? Ugh. Be that as it may, It’s not although he went to sleep last night expecting there to be any pleasure in waking up on a tattered bedroll at the peak of a mountain in the middle of a dwarven campsite.

Speaking of…

For a blissful, just bounced-back from dreamland second, It didn’t quite click that he shouldn’t be the only person standing in said camp. When the dead air and general lack of dwarves registered, with his eyes flicking between all the empty bedrolls, he allowed a slither of panic into his system.

“Geralt?” He immediately called out, wide-awake now. And then, _oh wait yeah_ , Geralt’s sleeping in that stupid, antiquated tent. “Dwarves?” He tried his luck with them instead, still searching for a hidden corner of camp where everyone might be.

Shockingly enough, he didn’t find one.

After the initial confusion dissipated, it hit him that logically the only place the dwarves could have gone would be the dragon's lair meaning they’d risen early to get a head start. So much for befriending that lot then. Truthfully speaking he hadn’t expected anything less – Yarpen did clarify that after their temporary team up it would be every man for himself.

As much as Jaskier would absolutely love to flop back down and catch a few extra winks, he realised two things that prevented him from doing so. Firstly, Geralt would only be pissed at him for failing to mention the dwarves had already set off. Secondly, Jaskier is a much heavier sleeper than he originally thought – seriously how did he fail to notice all those rowdy dwarves sneaking out of camp?

“Shit – Geralt!” A little uncoordinatedly he went skittering up the slope towards Yennefer’s tent. Skidding to a stop outside, he proceeded to hop irresolutely from foot to foot while debating whether he’d be brutally hexed for setting foot inside without first being invited. A lady’s sleeping space was practically sacred, after all. “Geralt? The, uh, the dwarves are…well, they’re gone. Poof. Vanished. If you wish to defeat this great beast before them, I would highly recommend we leave now. So, up and at 'em! Geralt? Come on I know full well you can hear me! Unless there’s a silencing charm. Oh gods, don’t make me come in there. Spare me the mental trauma. I mean it’s nothing I’ve never seen before since you two go at it like feral rabbits with very little care for privacy. Honestly, it’s like you want an audience sometimes. Hello? Rise and shine! The sun is high and – and I’m just talking to a tent, aren’t I?”

Dismissing his ‘respect women’ attitude from twenty seconds ago, he pushed through the tent opening and frowned. Because, of course the bloody tent isn’t actually cramped and awful inside. Of course, it’s magically expanded to the point where wooden beams are required to support the positively ginormous interior. Of course, the assortment of furniture selected isn’t outdated or even remotely tasteless. Of course, there’s a queen-sized bed crafted from what appears to be the finest mahogany in all the lands. Of. Fucking. Course.

Oh, and of course the tent is barren of anybody other than himself.

An invisible hand gripped at something fragile and vulnerable in his chest and squeezed. _Hard_. Everyone already left. Without him. Everyone including the one other member of his own bloody team. Which, okay, yeah, not the worst thing in the world since Jaskier probably wouldn’t be much help in a battle up against a dragon but that’s really not the point when everyone actively left him asleep, alone, and defenceless on a mountain crawling head to toe with monsters! What if another creature came along? What if that creature had fangs and claws and red eyes and – and tentacles or something? What if that creature thought Jaskier might make for a lovely spot of morning breakfast? What if –

 _Nothing did come along._ He strictly reminded himself.

Nor is it unorthodox for Geralt to leave him behind. Actually, the man often preferred Jaskier to remain as far out of harm’s way as physically possible when it came to monster contracts. So, for the sake of his ego and rising anxiety, he’ll have to believe that the only reason Geralt left him behind was to ensure his safety because that's certainly nicer than any of the alternatives.

In spite of that, Geralt’s flagrant disregard for basic monster-hunting etiquette by not ensuring Jaskier was at least awake before departing is downright appalling. With the way things have been lately, Jaskier's not sure why he's even surprised.

Straightening his spine, he cautiously stuck his head back outside the tent, resembling a mouse peeping out from its hole to check for danger. What? There’s a dragon on this mountain. Apparently. In theory. According to everybody. Jaskier has at least some sense of self-preservation. Especially when left alone. And everything outside the tent suddenly seemed way more daunting than it had before.

Retreating inside he rubbed an arm and gently nibbled on his lower lip. Would it be unspeakably cowardly to remain hidden in Yennefer’s tent until everyone inevitably returned? It’s not that he now _likes_ the tent after discovering the inside to be quite charming. If anything, knowing that every imaginable element of Yennefer’s chattel is fashionably elegant simply felt like salt on an open wound. So no, he still despises this damn thing.

…It’s just that Yennefer is a sorceress, meaning it’s not unreasonable to assume there might be a few protection charms at work on her tent. Right? That makes sense. A sorceress would do that. There’s a bowl of apples in here – a ridiculously large glass bowl of apples filled to the very brim, might he add. Why does Yennefer need so many apples? And is that another bowl of peaches? She’s had an endless supply of fruits this whole time!?

Not the point, but still. Fruit seems to be a luxury commodity on this mountain, therefore she must have installed at least some protection charms to ensure nothing too diabolical could get in during her absence, for the sake of the apples and peaches. 

Right!?

…Except he got inside without issue during her absence. That either indicates Yennefer sees him as a friend and his presence is hereby welcome, or there aren’t any protection charms at all.

Jaskier glowered at both bowls of fruit.

It’s probably the latter.

With a groan of dismay, he dragged his feet around to double-check that the coast was clear. After all, while this may be (presumably) the safest place on this Gods forsaken mountain, he refuses to remain stood beside an obtrusively rumpled bed which likely suffered through several scandalous acts last night, all of which would be frowned upon by Melitele _herself_. Seriously, Jaskier’s witnessed some things when it comes to Yennefer and Geralt. Grotesquely erotic, severely indecent, strangely fascinating _things_. There was this whole unicorn phase. Oh yeah, he knows about that. They’re…inventive, to say the least. 

Anyway, the coast is clear. 

Jutting his chin, he marched back outside into the fresh air, getting rewarded for his bravery with an uncomfortable pang in his abdomen. He contemplated what he’d eaten recently. Not a lot, would be the answer. Considering as of late he’s been incessantly plagued by misfortune, he’s been a bit distracted. Alas, breakfast will have to wait.

Another pang.

Okay fine.

Slipping back inside he grabbed a peach, grabbed a second peach for good luck, then skedaddled on out from the tent altogether, rushing like he expected Yennefer to appear out of thin air to reprimand him. As he skipped back down the slope, half juggling his spoils, he couldn’t help but feel a little accomplished in a petty sort of way. Robbing Yennefer certainly did wonders for brightening up his spirits. He made sure to give his lute a lopsided grin as he approached his bedroll as if it could somehow share in his triumph.

“Ah.” He realised he didn’t quite have enough hands for all this. Nor did his current outfit have any pockets consequential to the design being far to intricate to leave any space – a stylish tragedy if there ever was one. Jaskier made a silent vow to invest in more pocked-based outfits for all future endeavours. On the topic, he desperately couldn’t wait to change out of his current red and blue ensemble that would undoubtedly turn a more shameful shade of orange and sluggish green if wasn't careful. Mainly because he’s been wearing this for nearly four days now. Four! Heavens above, the collar still smelt mildly of vomit. That’s how disgusting he is right now.

He doesn’t even want to talk about the state of his hair and face.

Thankfully he’d at least had the sense to dab a few drops of orange citrus oil onto the linen of his doublet before departing; because he’s not a complete barbarian. It didn’t conserve much, but he felt better knowing he'd done it.

Gathering up his lute (and determination) he began walking out of camp, taking quick bites from one of the plump fruits while balancing the other in the crook of his elbow. Being this high up provided a breath-taking view of all the trails winding like arteries across the mountainscape. There was only one path leading away from camp, and he had to assume everyone else stuck to it. Hopefully, the dragon's lair wouldn’t be too far and he wouldn’t find a bunch of charred corpses there.

With one peach demolished, he tossed the stone away and gave himself a mental pep-talk. Alright, he’s going to catch up with everyone. Try not to take it personally that they abandoned him. Get a front seat view of the battle. Return to the tavern and write the most spectacular song of this whole nightmare. See? Today would be a good day, and nothing was going to prevent that from happening.

Another twinge in his abdomen.

 _Nothing_.

* * *

Jogging turned out to be more energy-consuming than he remembered it ever being. After ten minutes, he needed to stop and regain his breath in order to coax away a headache threatening to make a reappearance from last night. By some miracle, shortly afterwards he rounded a corner and almost cried in relief to discover he’d managed to catch up with the dwarves. Looks like they never got too far ahead after all!

Jaskier tried very hard to ignore the annoying voice at the back of his mind telling him that meant Geralt potentially left before the dwarves did. That would hurt. But it doesn’t hurt because Jaskier isn’t thinking about it, remember? 

“Oh, gosh. Phew!” He gasped, hurrying forwards. “Ah, what’d I miss? Huh? Guys?” Passingly he realised none of them were moving very quickly or acknowledging his presence. Moving would be a generous term. All of them were just sort of standing in a line…twitching peculiarly. “Are…we queuing for something? What’s going on?” 

Having little to no time or tolerance to deal with their eccentrics he cut ahead. Perhaps he’d have lingered a moment longer to try and understand why they weren’t charging steadfast into battle, but for one it’s completely possible they’ve gotten cold feet and who is he to judge them for that? And for another, there are at least two dead bodies up ahead.

“Oh, no.” He muttered because those were human bodies. Not a dragon body.

Struggling with his footing across the uneven terrain, he bounded forwards towards the chaos only to falter as the number of dead bodies grew larger. Weapons were scattered on the ground amongst their fallen owners and on closer inspection, Jaskier identified the (thankfully not charred) corpses to be the Reavers. The trail of bodies led towards a cave – the inside concealed by descending lianas that hung like nature’s own imitation of tassel curtains. 

His eyes fixed on one corpse in particular, sprawled out before the mouth of the cave, a familiar weapon impaling its middle. That’s Geralt’s sword – one of them anyway. Jaskier would recognise that shamelessly happy looking brooch anywhere since Geralt insisted on keeping it affixed to the cross-guard of his sword as the most ridiculously endearing disaster of a fashion statement that he's ever fucking seen. What’s even up with that? If it weren’t for the fact he found the brooch to be ever so slightly amusing being such a visual oxymoron to Geralt’s eternally surly expression, he’d kick up much more of a fuss about it. And he’s not one to judge on outrageous fashion statements, truly, but he figures if Geralt is going to own a piece of jewellery, then he should at least wear it properly. It’ll get all dented and chipped on that sword!  
  
The whole thing has become a bit of an ordeal between them.

Regardless, the sword's owner was missing.

“Oh fuck. What happened?” Jaskier breathed, rotating on the spot to observe the slaughter around him. And to ensure that all the bodies were only of the Reavers. Just in case. As he turned full circle, he startled violently upon seeing two incredibly alive looking people who were silently approaching him.

“Oh, gosh!” He shrieked, gaze whipping frantically between both faces to do a quick mental ‘ _friend or foe’_ evaluation, and then a quick ‘ _shouldn’t you be dead?_ ’ calculation. As fate might have it, they were friends, but they were also friends who definitely fell off the side of a mountain yesterday; Téa and Véa. Heart thumping erratically in his chest from both relief and shock, he doubled over and let his lute slide down his arm haphazardly. “Oh! Bloody hell!” He straightened back up. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Because he’s wonderfully articulate in moments of raw shock.

Neither woman responded, jerking up their weapons in unison, aiming over his shoulder at the dwarves who’d at long last sprinted onto the scene displaying far more urgency than they had two minutes ago. Jaskier, wisely, stepped aside. Taking a wild guess, he’d say the Zerrikanians were partly responsible for the downfall of the Reavers. If they were now challenging the dwarves, then Jaskier certainly wasn’t about to get in the way of that.

Yarpen, being the first to gather his wits after a brisk evaluation of the massacre, threw down his sword. “Well, that’s fuckin’ shite!” He yelled Jaskier’s way like any of this was at all his fault. “We missed a whole motherlode of fun.”

Ah, yes. A bloodbath. Fun.

To add to the dramatic art of the morning, Borch emerged from the cave and strode between Téa and Véa to address Yarpen. This whole set up is beautiful. Jaskier’s inner thespian is screaming in delight - and confusion.

There really is no reason for him to be upset anymore about missing out on the initial showdown. This past minute alone has been so brilliantly action-packed it’s rendered him speechless. Whatever he’d been expecting from a dragon hunt, this had certainly not been it. Not that he's disappointed; aside from the severe lack of dragon.

“Ask no questions, and in return, I offer you these to take to the king,” Borch said, revealing four large teeth from behind his back; dragon teeth, presumably. They’re a touch smaller than expected. Then again, Jaskier had been expecting dragon teeth to be the length of his whole arm. 

Right now, his mind warped like putty trying to decide which was more shocking: Borch and the Zerrikanians being alive, or a dragon existing. Since there wasn’t a dragon in sight, he settled on the first one.

“Dragon teeth?” Yarpen queried, suspicion dripping off his tone. “I’ve never been one to look a gift cock in the beak, though this might not be enough proof to collect the reward.”

Borch grimaced. “Tell the king if he’s not satisfied, he can expect the body of a dragon dropped upon his royal wedding. Free of charge.”

A tense and contemplative beat of silence passed. Then Yarpen smirked and reached out to accept the teeth, popping that tension like a needle in a bubble. Only after the dwarves began laughing triumphantly amongst themselves did the Zerrikanians relax, resting their swords on their shoulders. Jaskier couldn’t help but crack a proud smile as well, which the dwarves really didn’t deserve. Yeah, yeah. He sees their game; fashionably late yet taking all the credit.

It’s not that Jaskier had been radically rooting for Yarpen’s team or anything, because that would be entirely unfaithful to his own. However…his team did get a tad topsy-turvy when three of its members fell off the side of the mountain. Then Geralt essentially renegaded by changing his allegiance to Yennefer (not that anything about that was shocking), which left Jaskier – of whom never even wanted to embark on this quest – floundering awkwardly in this sort of team-less grey space.

So, yeah, okay, maybe he did resort to secretly cheering on the dwarves. Though in all fairness, Borch did just surrender the teeth for whatever reason allowing the dwarves to win. So with conflicting points of allegiance all around it all just kind of evens out. At the end of the day, they all shared a common enemy; the Reavers. Because honestly, fuck the Reavers.

Diverting his attention from the celebratory group of dwarves, he opened and closed his mouth like a clueless fish at his very alive companions. Which would be fine, except he’d been stuck all night long with the fallacious grief thinking they’d met their demise. Yet, here they were walking, talking, breathing, slaying, without so much as a broken arm. A few bruises and cuts littered their skin. Realistically speaking all of them should be something much more akin to a disgusting splatter of human limbs at the base of the mountain – and isn’t that just a fucking superb mental image to be having. 

Borch caught his stare and smiled warmly. “We meet again, dear bard.” 

“You,” he started up, waving a finger frenetically between them. “Have to be the luckiest fools I know. How are you even…? We watched you fall. To _death_! There was a lot of death. I distinctly remember that happening.”

“I suppose one might say luck would be the wind under the wings that carried us back,” Borch replied smoothly, like that offered any insight to the situation.

“Oh, well gee, when you put it that way everything sure stands to reason.” He retorted.

“It will in good time. Regardless, luck is a subjective construct. An optimist might argue our experience yesterday was an example of good luck, by focusing on our survival. However, a pessimist would argue the experience was instead an example of bad luck due to the planks collapsing in the first place. Both perspectives offer the same set of facts presented by a different outlook, which all in all makes luck rather ambiguous now doesn’t it? Are we lucky for surviving such an experience, or are we unlucky for being put in the experience?”

“Frame it however you want, you’re fucking lucky to be alive.” 

“An optimist then.”

“Oh, brother. Look, luck or no luck, no more falling off mountains. Alright? You all but drove Geralt into a fit of angst meaning I had to swoop in and palliate him of all his inner woes over your so-called demise. Not to mention the near heart attack you gave me. Unacceptable behaviour, frankly.”

Borch had the audacity to pout innocently. “Would an apology suffice for the trouble?”

A smile twitched on his lips. “Perhaps.”

“In which case, I profoundly apologise. Had I known the planks would break I may have reconsidered that route.” Borch declared with a hint of sarcasm sprinkled in. Jaskier refrained from mentioning that nearly everyone _had_ known the planks probably wouldn’t hold.

With his confusion sobering into relief, he crossed the distance to clasp Borch on the shoulder, shaking his head softly while the other man cordially returned the gesture. “I don’t know how all of you are still up and kicking, but it’s good to have you back.”

“Come now, our absence barely lasted half a day.”

“Irrelevant.”

Before Jaskier could begin concocting any kind of proper interrogation as to how Borch managed to survive, a hand slapped against his back heartily making him grunt in surprise. Glancing over his shoulder he found Xavier, the dwarf somehow seeming scragglier than yesterday – a mystery in itself. That mess on his head was frizzy enough to be mistaken for more of a bird’s nest than hair. How exactly the braid in his beard remained the only immaculate part of his appearance was beyond Jaskier’s comprehension.

“Ay, what’s this then, Morning Glory in brighter spirits? Praise above and beyond. Looks like the sun will shine it’s bare arse upon us all again.” Xavier sniggered playfully.

Jaskier huffed sulkily. “Really?”

Borch smiled. “I gather congratulations are in order?”

Xavier preened. “Ah well, victory was always going to be ours.”

“… _Clearly_.” Jaskier drawled with a roll of his eyes. “Anyway, I for one yearn to cast this whole clusterfuck of an endeavour behind us with the help of the sweetest drinks the tavern has to offer. Along with the fulfilment of a promise made to the inkeeps son; a night engaged in euphoria driven from the culinary and sensual arts. I believe I mentioned something or other about introducing him to the divinely sinful side of grapes. Now if only I could remember his name that would be marvellous…”

“The tavern lad and you?” Xavier asked then added. “The one who’s betrothed?”

“He’s _betrothed_?” Jaskier exclaimed then quickly composed himself. “Well uh, he propositioned me first.”

People not telling him they’re married or otherwise intended made up half the reason Jaskier gets into the bad books of so many nobles and commoners alike. It’s really not his fault. Half the time.

Xavier barked out a laugh. “You fuckin’ made that up.”

“What? No, I didn’t!”

“Did too.”

“Oh, like you made up your Południca?”

“Watch it.”

“Xavier!” Yarpen bellowed impatiently from where all the other dwarves were getting ready to depart. “Get a move on it! My beards growing grey waiting for your ass!”

“Hold yer bloomin’ horses!” Xavier yelled testily over his shoulder, then cleared his throat. “Well, ‘fraid this’ll be where we part ways. Can’t say it’s been much of a pleasure.”

“Of course not.”

“Also, can’t say you haven’t all been a bunch of poltroons.” Xavier promptly jabbed a finger at Borch. “Except you. Credit where credits due, you’re one tough old bag, and it’s been an honour.”

Borch, being mildly amused, nodded back. “As it has been to travel alongside you and your fellow compatriots. Godspeed and good luck to you in all future travels.”

“Aye, well met.”

Jaskier folded his arms. “Ah! Before you head off, I believe you owe someone an apology.”

“What for?”

“The shortcut, Xavier.”

“Aw hell, you ain’t still all snotty about that are ye?” Xavier scrunched up his nose. Jaskier narrowed his eyes. Ten seconds passed. Then Xavier conceded with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine! Don’t expect any of the other fellas to say it. I’m sorry you broke them planks, now nobody's gonna be able to use 'em.” He glanced to Jaskier. “Happy?”

Jaskier cringed and rocked his hand in a so-so gesture.

“Really, there’s no apology needed. We all agreed to accompany you and made the decision ourselves to step onto those planks.” Borch humbly assured him.

“Fuckin’ exactly. Now, as for you Morning Glory-“

“Okay, well, now you’re just overdoing it.”

“- I best be hearing that blasted song yer wastin’ sweat and tears on in every tavern I come across. Got it?”

A sly smirk appeared on his lips. “Why of course. Would you care for a preview? Let’s see…I confess it’s a little rough since I’ve had to emend a few details considering I drastically misinterpreted how this whole battle would pan out. I’m sure you’ll catch onto what I’m getting at.” He cleared his throat.

  
_‘Up, up, up, the mountain we go,_

_We’re hunting a dragon, didn’t you know,_

  
_Through sweat and blood, toil and trouble_

_Whether the dwarves won_

_Is a bit of a puzzle,_

  
_For towards the end they lacked gusto_

_And the reality is, they missed the whole ruddy show-‘_

  
Jaskier dissolved into laughter as Xavier promptly shoved him. Did he actually have a song to publicise about this hunt specifically? No, not really. Did his pride prevent him from ever admitting that? Yes, obviously.

“Agh, I’m sure you’ll spin a finer tale. Lest it be beyond your talents.”

“But the story is this, the dwarves gave it a miss-“ He dodged a second shove and decided to conclude his teasing upon receiving a scolding glare. “Ah, fear not! If you so desire it, I’ll spike the story with a dash more dramatic flair. It’s my speciality, after all.”

“Atta boy.” 

“You have my word that it will be an extraordinary ballad depicting a passion so fiery it’ll warm the very hearts of the common folk, setting alight their spirits to last them throughout the chill of the coming winter nights.”

Xavier’s eyebrows spasmed in a way that suggested Jaskier had said something amusing. “Think you mean spring.”

“Pardon?”

“Right, I best be off. Reward ain’t gonna collect itself.” Xavier gave the pair of them another friendly slap before lumbering on after his gradually disappearing dwarven company.

“Farewell!” Borch called cheerfully.

Before Xavier could get out of earshot, he slowed and spun back around to wave. “Oi! Keep pursuing that fuckin’ Witcher ‘n tell me about it over a beer next time we cross paths, yeah?”

Pursuing sure was an odd way of putting it.

He offered a half-hearted salute in return. “Until next time. Try not to traumatise any new-born monsters on your way back down!” 

“Where’s the fuckin’ fun in that?”

“ _Xavier_!”

“ _I’m coming.”_

Bidding them one last farewell, Xavier finally listened to Yarpen and departed which left Jaskier with Borch, the Zerrikanians, the offensive pile of bodies, and a surprising bout of disappointment. The dwarves, while uncouth, reckless, and slightly dishonest, had managed to grow on him. Part of Jaskier may even be a little touched by the fact Xavier dedicated the time to say goodbye.

Dare he say he’ll miss them? No. Preposterous. 

After a moment of silence, Borch piped up again. “Morning Glory?”

“Don’t even start.”

The Zerrikanians had the indecency to snigger.

Briefly, he mulled over what Xavier had meant. Spring? The man must be mistaken. There were at least another 40 days (give or take) until Imbolc – and Jaskier would know because there have been invitations flying in from across the continent asking him to perform at royal balls and banquets celebrating the very _arrival_ of spring. One of which he accepted. _Mid_ winter had hardly come and gone. It couldn’t have been more than four nights ago. And he’s sure of that too since Midwinter happened to be the night of the Rusalka incident.

His blood ran cold.

A night he hardly remembers.

“Well, would you like to know the tale of how we survived yesterday?” Borch asked.

“No.” He squeaked, struggling to push down the creeping anxiety. Because surely somebody would have mentioned it being spring - _surely_ Jaskier would have noticed! Xavier had to be wrong. That’s the only explanation for it. “No. I mean yes. I mean –“ he jerked a thumb over his shoulder and started backing up towards the cave. “Is Geralt in there? I’m going to go and check on…Geralt. Yes. Stick a pin in that for one mo.”

A wince wrinkled at the muscles of Borch’s brow. “Ah, alright. I should first warn you that-“

Jaskier pushed aside the hanging lianas. 

“Oh, _fuck_! That’s a dragon.”

* * *

Dragons rarely ever featured in stories told to Jaskier as a boy. He’d only grow overly excited and take an eternity to get to sleep. That didn’t stop him from trying to squeeze them into every bedtime story possible, if not because of his overactive imagination then simply to spruce up the mundane stories that were repeatedly told to him. Besides, what was a fairy tale without a dragon? Boring.

_“Once upon a time, in a beautiful kingdom far, far away, hidden in the tallest tower of the tallest castle, was a-“_

_‘Was a dragon! Roar!’_

_‘Dragons don’t exist, Julian.’_

Yes, the absolute delight that was his mother. Safe to say, his lust for adventure never came from her. How wrong she’d been about dragons though. Shit, how wrong he’d been about dragons.

There were thousands upon thousands of fantasies fabricated in his head of scaly beats thirsty for nothing but gold and bloodshed. Which probably originated from his perpetual adoration of legends born from ‘dragon slayers’ who'd rescue innocent maidens and claim the mighty treasure hoards. 

The reality of dragons seemed quite different.

Inside the cave was cold and bare, a glum grey that didn’t glitter with gold, with shadows that hissed and whipped at the invasive sunlight that followed Jaskier inside when he pushed through the lianas. While there was undeniably something monstrously ancient about this place, it didn’t make the hair on the back of his neck stand on edge. Then again, he's always had a skewed sense of danger.

For example, he noticed Geralt and Yennefer engrossed in conversation before the ginormous, green dragon lying motionlessly on the opposite end of the cave. Priorities, who needs them?

“Jaskier.” Yennefer said.

“Yennefer.” He returned, unwilling to break their customary way of greeting one another.

For one horrific moment, he thought he’d interrupted something. But thankfully fate had mercy on him, and she moved away from Geralt with an amused shake of her head, lifting her dress to step daintily over the obstacle course of Reaver corpses.

As she passed, she slowed to lean towards his ear and say, “Careful, don’t be too loud lest you might wake it. They say dragons like to savour the delicate notes of virgins.”

“Wait, is it not – is it – I thought – ?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “It’s dead.”

“Oh. Phew. That’s a relief.” He said, then clicked his tongue and whirled on Yennefer. “You dare besmirch my very name by insinuating that I, Jaskier, lover of lovers, am a – !”

“Hush. It’s a joke. Word of your…” A smirk grew on her lips as she raked her predatory violet eyes up and down his form. “ _talents_ , hasn’t escaped my ears.”

 _If_ he rose his lute between himself and Yennefer like a shield and started backing up towards the dragon like that was at all a favourable escape route, then it’s purely because last time she got too close for comfort she threatened to cut his cock off. Not because he's intimidated by the prospect of Yennefer flirtatiously toying with him. 

“Yen.” Geralt sighed.

“What?” She replied, now batting her eyelashes at Geralt. “Your songbird is famous for more than his lute. I wonder how much of the scuttlebutt is true.”

“Ah, um, well. When I said lover of lovers…” He chuckled in an octave far too high with a semi-mortified gaze flicking between Geralt and Yennefer. “I definitely wasn’t insinuating that…um…”

Well.

 _Well_.

Jaskier doesn’t have the best moral compass when it comes to whom he beds. He likes sex! And perhaps he has accumulated somewhat of a name for sleeping around; with wives, concubines, mothers, _tavern boys who're (apparently) already betrothed_. He’s really not picky. Where he does draw the line, because believe it or not he does on rare occasions, is under sleeping with the significant others of his friends. Jaskier was not a lover of a friend’s lovers. And Yennefer. There is a line drawn under Yennefer in bright red at least fifty times for good measure. Yennefer is a no-go zone. Not even because of Geralt. And Geralt well he is…a zone?

Geralt and Yennefer are attractive. Objectively. That isn’t exactly a new revelation. Everybody knows that (everybody who isn’t bigoted). It’s a fact so widely and so commonly known it’s equal to grass being green and the sky being blue. There's Yennefer, with her whole dark, sexy sorceress style. And Geralt, with his strength, his hair, his eyes, the way he’s so devastatingly suited to playing the role of a Byronic Hero, yet deep down _isn’t_ , that small smile that crinkles his lips whenever he’s reluctantly amused. And fuck, those arms. You’d have to be blind not to notice – nay, even then there’s still his voice. 

All objectively speaking, of course.

And Jaskier’s only human. He’s allowed to look and think and occasionally drool. With the number of times he’s walked in on them both it would frankly be strange not to, right? What else was he supposed to do with the multitude of filthy images that have been permanently ironed into his brain (utterly against his will, he swears) other than ‘accidentally’ let one or two of them slip into his sexual fantasies? Was that so wrong? Yes, okay, maybe. In his defence, they really should consider locking the door more often. 

This wasn't a moral-conundrum he wanted to be tackling before breakfast. In a dragon’s lair, no less. See, they’re fucking inventive. Who else comes up with this shit?

Yennefer grinned wickedly. “Shame. Perhaps your reputation doesn’t precede you after all.” 

“Wha-“ he bleated, but she’d already disappeared outside. Well, that’s not fair. How’s he supposed to play into Yennefer’s game with Geralt stood right there!? He didn’t need to give Geralt any more reasons to hate him, _thank you very much_.

Oh. Right. Yeah. That.

He side-glanced Geralt, still half hugging his lute, finding the other man staring right back at him with disarming blankness. Well, this is wonderfully awkward. Just him, Geralt, and a dead dragon.

Geralt opened his mouth to speak.

“I wouldn’t fuck Yennefer!” He blurted out before the other man could get a word in, hating how his cheeks flushed hot because would you look at that, Yennefer and Geralt were turning him into a prude. A prude! Julian Alfred Pankratz, a prude!? What, would pigs start flying soon as well?

Geralt’s brow crinkled with poorly masked surprise. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Slowly, _very slowly,_ the lute was lowered back to its usual place at his side. Yennefer had clearly been messing with him and usually Jaskier was all for their verbal swordplay, but that time had felt ineffably wrong. She’d somehow managed to hit a weak-spot Jaskier hadn’t even realised existed. A weak-spot consistently poked at by disobedient and intangible emotions. And no, this weak-spot definitely wasn't some deep-rooted desire to court Yennefer. Gods no, definitely not that.

“Are you injured at all?” Jaskier decided on asking eventually to change the subject.

“No.”

“Good. Then you can explain why you never woke me.” He demanded in a voice more vulnerable than he’d care to admit.

Geralt shrugged. “You looked like you needed the rest.”

“I’m sure I also looked like an invitation for all creatures big and small to come and feast on.” 

“Nothing could have harmed you within the borders of the campsite.”

“You sound awful sure of that for someone who wasn’t left sleeping all by their lonesome out in the open.” He muttered bitterly.

“Considering I’m the one who cast Yrden on the area, yeah, I am sure about that. All you had to do was stay put until we returned.”

Jaskier blinked. “Oh.”

“ _Oh_.” Geralt parroted with a hint of smugness that all to swiftly erased itself. “How…are you holding up?”

That sure catapulted his thoughts back to last night.

“Fine.” He lied instantly, getting backhanded by his own subconscious as that bothersome headache started to throb. Geralt must have sensed the lie because he expelled a breath and rubbed at his brow. “I’m fine.” He repeated more firmly. “Are…we fine?”

“Hm.”

“Jury’s still out then?” He teased warily. The still air that followed only acted to further sow the seeds of doubt. “Geralt…you’re aware I’m not Yennefer, correct?”

“Glaringly.”

“So you’re also aware I can’t read minds?”

“The world would succumb to chaos if you could.” Geralt replied half sincerely.

Jaskier managed a fluttering smile. “Naturally.” The smile dropped. “As much as I adore translating these little grunt’s and hm’s of yours, I do need to be told some things. With words. I know, horrid little things, aren’t they? Now as improbable as this may seem to you, many actually consider them to be a helpful tool in the art of communication. Myself included. Otherwise, it’s fairly easy to end up spiralling down a rabbit hole of misinterpretation.”

Geralt, all of a sudden, started investing a _great_ deal of effort and attention into moving bodies away from the center of the cave. “Are we not talking right now?”

Jaskier’s nose crinkled. “Yes but… look I’m just going to come out and say it. You’ve been acting strange – stranger than usual – and sending me an avalanche of mixed messages. Have I done something – something _else_ to cause you distress?”

“We resolved this yesterday, did we not?”

“Did we?” He fired back challengingly.

Geralt draped one of the bodies up against the cave wall and went to collect another. “What do you want me to say?”

Jaskier swallowed the urge to sigh. “What’s wrong might be a good place to start. What’s really wrong.”

“There isn’t anything wrong. Why do you persist on – “ Another twinge coiled in Jaskier’s belly. The body Geralt had been dragging dropped to the ground with a resounding _thump_. Jaskier nearly winced. For a split second, Geralt’s eyes landed somewhere on Jaskier’s lower half before shooting back up to his face. “It’s nothing.”

Who exactly was Geralt trying to convince here?

“If I may, respectably speaking, I think that’s a load of bollocks. I mean nothing is a confusing term. Philosophers adore the question debating whether nothing in itself counts as something despite being the opposite of something. In titling this nothing you speak of as an ‘it’, you’re effectively establishing a something. There must be something to exist to deny. Therefore, how can something be nothing? And while I acknowledge that’s barely applicable here, I still think it’s fair of me to say -”

“Leave off.”

“Geralt, please, I’m only trying to – “ 

“Nothing is wrong.” Geralt yanked up the fallen body by its ankle and started stalking away, the body sliding face-first along the dirt after him. “Don’t make me say it again.” 

_Liar._

The word flashed to the front of his thoughts, splenetic and cold, baiting his irritation which howled and clawed like a riled dog rattling the gates to his very mind. Gates he refused to open today. When he didn’t give into irritation, he gave into weariness by letting his shoulders slump forwards as Geralt returned to organising the corpses. 

The lie felt like another strike to his already waning perseverance. It’s not nothing, and Jaskier knows it's not. He can’t for the life of him figure out the right questions to ask to gain the right answers. Fuck, he doesn’t even know the right way to bring this up when it continuously threatens to evolve into an argument. But one thing he knows for certain: it’s not nothing.

“Alright, Geralt.” He replied quietly, lips tightening into a fine line. “Alright.”

There’s only so much bullshit Jaskier would endure. And frankly, Geralt’s been projecting bullshit ever since they set off on this hunt. That's a whopping three days’ worth of bullshit. Today already got scheduled to be a good fucking day, so he doesn’t need to be putting up with Geralt’s fluctuating mood-swings.

Letting out a deliberately loud huff, he slouched towards the dragon. Better company, after all.

An impulse to flee prickled through his nerves, but he diligently drew nearer until he was at least five feet from the beast. If it wasn’t for the gentle ‘ _shrr_ ’ of corpses being dragged along the dirt reassuring him that Geralt wasn’t too far away, then he’d never dare to venture so close to such a dangerous creature; dead or not.

The dragon lay motionless curled protectively around an egg larger than Jaskier’s entire head. On closer inspection he realised the dragon hadn’t been mutilated by battle, indicating it never got involved in whatever transpired here today. Unless Yennefer killed it with magic. His eyes lingered on its powerful jaw, using his imagination to picture the set of teeth hidden out of sight that would no doubt be capable of devouring a human (such as himself) in a few vicious chomps.

“Beautiful, isn’t she.” 

Jaskier squawked and hopped a whole foot sideways.

“For the love of Melitele's _tits_ , Borch! Don’t sneak up on people like that!” He scolded, a hand clutching the fabric of his doublet right above where his startled heart would be.

“Fear not, I think you’ll find you're quite safe, the dragoness has been bereft of life for quite some time. Long before any of us arrived, leastwise. The real threat here today was the Reavers.” 

“Dragoness? Don’t tell me you’ve already looked up the poor things skirt.”

Borch chuckled, though his shoulders drooped. “Let’s just say I’m somewhat of an expert on the matter.”  
  
“I see.” He said and returned his gaze to the dragoness. “The egg…do you think it’s…?”

“No,” Borch replied surely, his voice dipping into something much softer, much fonder.

Jaskier cautiously took a step closer, oblivious to the way Borch leaned forwards as if to stop him before changing his mind and relaxing once more. Dropping to one knee, he carefully set aside his lute and kept a wary gaze on the notably peaceful face of the dragoness. She still seemed so young. Not that Jaskier knew anything in the slightest about dragon ageing, but the tightness of the scales and the over-all fresh features hinted she hadn’t even been close to reaching her elder years. Tendrils of pity spiralled through him. How robbed this poor creature had been. Both of these creatures. One of life and one of a mother. 

His fingers tingled to touch, to feel, to know. When was an opportunity like this ever going to present itself again? So in a daze he lightly ran his fingertips along the ridges of the dragoness’ forehead, quietly grimacing over how cold the typically fiery creature felt beneath his warm hand. 

For a creature so often depicted in legends to be a bloodthirsty savage, there was something remarkably graceful about it even in death. Up close, the juniper green scales had a lighter shade weaved in-between them. They didn’t shimmer or shine like emeralds, but instead, they were a dull matt rather akin to frog’s skin. Which ultimately made this creature all the more real and believable, separating it from the countless ridiculous tales where dragons had talons larger than lances and scales that gleamed brighter than the sun itself.

And immediately Jaskier loved it for that.

“She is. Beautiful, I mean.” He commented passingly. He flattened his hand over her forehead. “I’m sorry this happened. Be at rest now.” He spoke so quietly it barely came out louder than a whisper. 

Just beyond the mother’s head sat the egg, the unborn child hidden away from a world which had already attempted to jeopardise its existence. Possibly already had. The eggshell itself fascinated him; pigmented like molten lava, defensive and minacious, such a juxtaposing pattern on something so delicate. Once again, his fingers tingled with an avid fascination, so he reached out.

“The egg cannot be moved.” Borch’s voice rushed out somewhat severe. Immediately Jaskier’s fingers curled inward and withdrew to his chest – as if the egg had scorched him. “The life inside would die should the egg be moved. Furthermore, I strongly advise against remaining in such close proximity. Dragons are one of the few creatures capable of absorbing magic, and that has been known to cause…complications of which I’m sure you’d prefer to avoid experiencing.”

 _Jolly good thing I don’t wield magic then._ He thought bemusedly to himself.

“It’ll be alone.” He fretted out loud, already hatching plans on how he could potentially wedge raising a dragon into his already hectic timetable. What? He has a soft spot for all abandoned, orphaned or otherwise sad and lonely children. Be it human or not. Guilty as charged. 

A hand fell on his shoulder. “Not quite. The hatchling still has some family left in this world.”

“You think?”

“I know. Sometimes we find family in the places we least expect to.”

“So it’ll be okay?” 

“Yes. Yes, I’m quite certain of that.” Borch beamed and Jaskier didn’t need to look upwards to know the man was smiling. 

After giving the egg one final sad glance, he nodded and stood up again while dusting off his hands on his trousers. “You’re probably right. I’m sure the little dragon or dragoness will find their…wings.”

Because he couldn’t actually adopt a dragon.

Behind them, Geralt was still determinedly piling up bodies. The more Jaskier thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion the Witcher was aiming to give the dragon a more respectable resting place rather than the Reavers. Admittedly that ignited a warmth in an area of him which had frosted over recently.

“Hoo, gosh. Alright. Let’s get out of here.” He stretched his arms upwards and felt the bones pop. “For a dragon cave, it’s really rather disappointing. Where’s the legendary hoard of treasure? I expected a cave laden with heavenly riches, walls imbued with glistening gemstones, trinkets accumulated from far and wide! This is less than impressive.” He commented, pretending he didn’t love the cave all the more for being vacant of any of that.

Borch walked at his side as they exited. “The treasure trove you describe would have only attracted unwanted attention, I imagine. Be that as it may, the greatest treasure of all remains by her side. She sacrificed her life to protect it. A treasure like that is…priceless. Which I’m sure you’ll come to understand.”

Jaskier’s brows bumped together.

Outside Téa and Véa greeted them, attentive, the two women stood on guard in case any other unwanted visitors came along. Jaskier couldn’t help but think that they all reserved some unfathomable loyalty to a dead dragon.

“The dwarves are out of range,” Téa informed them. “The area is now secure.”

“Very good.” Borch praised, satisfied. “Now, I do believe we owe you a tale as to how we survived yesterday. I think you’ll find it quite riveting if not entertaining.”

"Listen, while your physical presences here count as irrefutable evidence to show you've somehow bamboozled death itself, I’m not certain a feasible explanation exists. Surviving such a typically fatal fall shouldn't be possible without...I don't know..." he snorted at himself in amusement, “ _flying_.”

Borch opened and closed his mouth a few times before offering a sheepish smile.

* * *

“I for one _love_ dragons. Dragons are great. They’re marvellous monsters - _I uh_ \- creatures. Lizards. Life forms. With all the teeth and the scales and the…fire…breathing.” 

Borch rose his eyebrows at Jaskier who hadn’t stopped nervously babbling for over ten minutes. As it turns out, nobody had been lying in saying dragons were real. So real, in fact, that dear ole Borch just so happens to be one. And if that’s isn't the most unforeseeable plot twist to this entire day – _nay_ – this entire hunt then he doesn't know what is! Because seriously, nothing could possibly outshine this.

Now that he had all the knowledge of dragons at his disposal and the benefit of hindsight he realised, painstakingly so, how many obvious hints Borch had dropped. _‘There are other ways of enduring’_. Subtle. Real subtle. Apparently, those other ways include being a human. Who’d have thought? Oh, and that green dragon? Totally Borch’s spouse, mate, lover, whatever they call each other; or _called_ each other. A true romantic tragedy.

His memory also kindly served to remind him of all the poppycock he’d sprouted these past few days about dragons. To Borch. _A dragon._

“Indeed.”

His face spasmed. “You’ve just been given a bad rep, that’s all. As far as I’m concerned, dragons are grand members of this…world. Society? Would you say you're a member of society? Never mind, not important. You, sir, are the epitome of don’t judge a book by its cover. And I have to say I’m a huge admirer of the way you completely duped us all with this ostensibly harmless humanoid get-up – is it an illusion?”

“It’s polymorphism. When one wishes to travel incognito it’s a beneficial skill to have. Since I’m highly proficient in the art I’m capable of assuming many forms. Borch Three Jackdaws is admittedly a favourite of mine, aside from my true form, of course.”

If somebody told him that he’d be having a conversation with a dragon today, he’d have laughed at them. As daunting as that may sound, it’s still only Borch; who snores and jokes and catches Jaskier from falling over. So past the initial apprehension, part of him was positively elated. 

“Oh, now this, _this_ is just unparalleled. A heroic tale, brimming with conflicting themes; of life and death, fate and choice, love and heartbreak. False appearances and reality! By the gods, Borch, you’ve outdone yourself. Truly.” He marvelled, resting his lute against the face of a comfortable looking rock.

“I…thank you?”

“For curiosities sake, I really must ask – and please excuse me for being crass – but what is…what is _this_?” he waved a hand between Borch and the Zerrikanians who deadpanned him. “Is it companionship? An allegiance? Do you worship him? Is this a love affair? What…” he paused. “If so is he ever in dragon form when you-“

Borch coughed. Loudly.

“You ask too many questions.” Véa narrowed her eyes at him.

“I get that a lot.”

Jaskier didn’t get the opportunity to press any further as Geralt emerged, done with arranging the bodies. He hadn’t disposed of them, leaving that for Borch to do, but he had made the job vastly easier. Giving them a grunt of acknowledgement Geralt lumbered on in the direction Yennefer disappeared, appearing just as exhausted as Jaskier had felt yesterday if not more. Had he slept? In fairness, there was probably very little sleeping happening in Yennefer’s tent last night.

Borch tugged the arm of a mildly reluctant Jaskier to follow, of whom didn’t have a chance to grab his lute - ruefully hoping Téa and Véa keep a watchful eye on it while guarding the cave entrance. They were of an equal level of importance, clearly.

Where they found Yennefer was sat on a rocky outcrop, staring cogitatively out at the open landscape below which highlighted the distance they’d travelled these past few days. A wind had picked up at some point, tousling the endless view of green-hued shrubs with a crisp and cautious movement to it, and the closer to the outcrop they drew the more it seemed to feel like small hands pushing feebly at his chest in a futile attempt to turn him around. An uneasy calm warning the oncoming of a detrimental storm. 

While Borch and Geralt took a seat either side of Yennefer, Jaskier hesitated and slumped down a few feet away on a slight elevation of the land, arching his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. The gap between him and the others having been sown by the invisible threads of unspoken estrangement.

Being at a distance presented a mild challenge in trying to catch everything being said - especially above the wind - but he could get the general gist of the conversation.

* * *

“This is my final first. A child. This treasure, this legacy must endure. There is no other reason to go on. Thank you for protecting it. And thank you, Yennefer of Vengerburg. I can see why Geralt didn’t want to lose you.” 

Yennefer’s features scrunched. “What does that mean?”

Borch had an unbearable edge of smugness to his smirk as he pointed his gaze onto Geralt. Yennefer followed it. If looks could kill, then Borch would certainly have combusted under the weight of Geralt’s glare, the kind of havoc Borch just unlocked a door to was not anything Geralt needed to be dealing with right now. Not with everything else already on his plate.

However, he managed to reign in his irritation. “In Rinde. The Djinn.”

Her lips parted, nonplussed, as she connected the dots. “That’s why we can’t escape each other?” Geralt shook his head. “Why I feel this way inside.”

“No.”

“It’s not because of anything real…or true. You made a wish. It’s magic.”

“It’s real, Yen.” 

“How could we ever know?” She demanded, jumping up to conceal the preliminary hurt of her reaction. “Disregard for others freedom has become quite your trademark.” 

He loured up at her. “I made that wish to save your life.”

“I didn’t need your help!” She yelled.

“Like fuck you didn’t!” Geralt snapped back, leaping to his feet as well. Borch remained sat awkwardly between the arguing pair. “And you, you flit about like a tornado, wreaking havoc, and for what? So you can have a baby? A child is no way to boost your fragile ego, Yen.”

The hurt in Yennefer deformed as she blinked in minor disbelief, taking a bold step closer. “I’ll take advice from you about children as soon as you take responsibility for the one you bound to you and then abandoned!”

“That’s enough.” Borch interrupted them sternly, having grown exasperated by their dispute. “I’m going to save you both a lot of hurt with a little pain now. The sorceress will never regain her womb. And though you didn’t want to lose her, Geralt, you will.”

“He already has.” The tear rolling down her cheek didn’t match her stony expression. She gave Borch a polite nod before storming away. Jaskier hurried to his feet to watch her pass.

Geralt stared after her, standing frozen for what felt like an eternity until yellow eyes locked with blue. Something ugly clashed with his exhaustion.

“You wanted to show me what I was missing…there she goes.” He told Borch through gritted teeth, unable to stop the accusation from bleeding into his tone. They still might need Yennefer and now – 

His jaw clenched. 

Borch steadily pushed himself to his feet. “What you’re missing is still out there. Your legacy. Your destiny. I know it.” Borch raised his eyebrows pointedly as Jaskier approached them. “And you know it.”

Without waiting for Geralt to respond Borch followed after Yennefer, unbeknownst to him leaving a looming wave of chaos about to crash down. The protest Geralt intended to make died on his tongue. Instead of facing the music, he fixed a relentless glare on the ground. Jaskier’s boots still caught at the top of his vision. Absurd boots. Geralt fucking hated those boots. They weren’t remotely practical for travelling.

So he turned away. Away from what Borch was insinuating. Away from the stupid boots. Away from all of it.

_Destiny. Borch. Yennefer. Rusalki. Law of Surprise. Destiny. Jaskier. Law of Surprise. Jaskier. Yennefer. Destiny –_

The words ran in mutinous circles around his head, goading his fury like sticks poking at a wrathful beehive – the buzzing swarm inside dangerously nearing one poke away from exploding altogether. 

“Phew! What a day!” Jaskier chuckled nervously behind him.

_\- Law of Surprise. Jaskier. Destiny. Jaskier. Child Surprise. Jaskier -_

“I imagine you’re probably – “

The wolf medallion vibrated against his chest and - 

_“Damn it, Jaskier!”_

* * *

When Jaskier was six, he fell in love.

He did!

A girl, no more than a few years older than himself – naturally. With bouncy, blonde hair, warm eyes sweeter than honey, whose mother owned the finest clothes emporium in the area. An endless supply of audacious gowns from that emporium made up his sisters’ wardrobe, she despised each and every one them, but Jaskier thought they were really quite lovely with all their ostentatious designs and poufy collars. When he discovered the pretty girl with honey-like eyes would one day own this emporium, well, young Jaskier had swooned entirely. Being the hopeless romantic that he was and will always be, he decided to present this girl with a flower as a token of his love.

She ran away.

In retrospect, his whole declaration of love may have come on a tad too strong. For instance, it probably hadn’t been wise to include terms like ‘soulmates’ and ‘star-crossed lovers’ in a speech to a girl he’d barely even met, all at the naïve age of six. Nowadays he might be considered the suavest bard around, however, perfection isn't summoned from thin air! He had to start somewhere, and this girl (unfortunately for her) was where he started.

And failed.

The whole experience was really rather devastating for him. Jaskier still vaguely remembers the conversation he had with his mother after enduring what would be the first of many, many heartbreaks to come.

“That’s adorable, Julian. You _love_ this girl? Why you must know that it's nothing more than another fantasy you’ve invented.” His mother chided, keeping her tone sharply playful. “You needn’t worry about these things.”

“But I do love her!” He protested. “Why doesn’t she love me back? I tried giving her this flower. It’s pretty, like her! See!”

His stubby arms shook slightly as they proudly held up an iron pot – one that should belong in the kitchens. It had been clumsily converted into a makeshift plant pot and filled with soil, displaying a single flower in the center - handled with greater care than a six-year-old should know of.

“Why do you have this?” She asked listlessly, gesturing to the pot.

“I didn’t want to hurt it so, I borrowed this pot. The gardening man helped me.” He explained, struggling to lift said pot onto the table which resulted in dirt dribbling over the edge and helplessly onto the tiled floor. 

“I see.” Her lips were drawn into a thin line as she crossed the drawing-room to balance the pot properly, preventing any further mess from being made. Then she plucked the yellow flower from its stem, earning a short but scandalised shriek from him.

“ _Mother_ -!“

“A daffodil.” She identified the yellow flower, tracing the contours of each fragile petal with one of her long nails. “What a devastatingly ironic choice. Tell me, what made you decide on this over the myriads of roses our gardens have to offer?”

Jaskier puffed out his chest. “Because the book grandma gave me says daffodils mean you respect someone! And I do respect her.”

With an overly sympathetic sigh, his mother dropped the flower onto the mantlepiece. “Oh, darling. How terribly misled you’ve been. A daffodil on its own will only ever represent unrequited love. And you cannot make somebody love you, now that is something you will have to respect.” Immediately upon hearing this, his dreams were crushed, heart shattered, and lower lip startled to wobble. She hummed softly and pulled him into a hug. “Julian?”

“Yes, mother?” 

“You are not to speak with that girl ever again. Do I make myself clear?”

“But – “

“ _Ever_ again.” She repeated, tightening her arms around his smaller frame.

“Yes, mother…”

“Good boy.” She praised happily, drawing back to press a gentle kiss into his hair.

* * *

Daffodils are odd. 

They’re a deceptively cheerful yellow that'll only last through spring. Similar to how the bruise of unrequited love will eventually fade away. Dandelions and buttercups are much preferable yellow hued flowers. Dandelions were full of perseverance and buttercups of light and joy. Jaskier’s always prided himself on how far his ability to love dared to go. He had an endless supply of it that never seemed to shy away from typically unlovable things. In fact, if it were possible to spread it to every corner of the world, he would. That’s just who he is. A dandelion. A jolly fucking buttercup.

Sometimes he needs to be reminded that not everyone wants dandelions or buttercups around.

And that’s okay.

Sometimes he needs to be reminded that not everyone likes dandelions or buttercups.

And that’s okay.

Sometimes he needs to be reminded why he really, _really_ hates daffodils.

And that’s – 

* * *

“ _Damn it, Jaskier_.” Geralt rounded on him. “Why’s it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days it’s you, shovelling it?”

Yellow eyes, surging with a fervent inferno consumed him. Anybody in their right mind would know not to get on the receiving end of such a scolding fury. Unfortunately, that's exactly where Jaskier currently found himself. 

“Well, that’s not fair-”

“The child surprise. The djinn. All of it. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take _you_ off my hands.” Geralt spat, jabbing a finger Jaskier’s way to reinforce his ruling before turning his back. 

On Jaskier.

On their friendship.

On all of it.

A brief look of bewilderment slapped across Jaskier’s face before it swiftly collapsed into hurt. When it did, he made a feeble attempt to mask it behind indifference, but that felt akin to stopping air from leaving the lungs; dizzying and demanding.

“Right.” A lump swelled in his throat. “Uh, right then…” He repeated stupidly, wrestling his gaze elsewhere. _Any_ where. At the clouds. The grey, desolate, cold clouds. “I’ll…I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.”

Except he doesn’t do that.

He waits.

He waits like a fool for Geralt to take it back.

The longer he waits, the longer the silence stretches, and the more his fingers start to itch. How he wished he hadn't left his lute behind. If he didn’t occupy himself by concentrating on something else, _any_ thing else, he might unravel. He's not entirely sure what the burning in his eyes would evolve into if that happened.

Jaskier forced himself to hold his ground for a moment longer, rubbing his index and thumb together over and _over_. Trying to chase off that insuperable itch. Waiting. Watching. Clutching fearfully onto that last little spark of hope spluttering for life. 

The Witcher, however, remained mute.

And that’s enough to snuff that spark out.

“See you around, Geralt.” He surrendered to the silence, ignoring the numbing chill of ice that shot through his veins as he spoke the carefully phrased farewell that he always did whenever they went their separate ways. Those four words implied they’d meet again. There was no finality to them because Jaskier hated goodbyes. He’d always hated goodbyes. 

And maybe he just couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye, not to Geralt.

Where exactly he located any of the correct muscles walk away is entirely beyond him. But he damn well does it. All the way through the distressed wind, up the same path of misery Yennefer took and straight back to the dragon cave, finding Téa and Véa still stationed outside the entrance.

A far-flung part of him was thankful nobody else had witnessed that outburst. In hindsight, he felt fucking bad about giving Yennefer a look of pity when she left. If somebody looked at him with anything remotely akin to pity he’s not so sure he’d be able to maintain the same level of controlled detachment that she had.

Getting the ‘rest of the story from the others’ definitely didn’t seem like a feasible task he’d set for himself. And only then does it even fleetingly cross his mind that the only sides to the story he never heard were Yennefer and Geralt’s perspectives. Which is just dreadfully sardonic of fate. Not that he cared for the story anymore.

The dwarves got the dragon teeth. 

The end.

Hurrah.

Without a word, which in itself gained concerned glances, he snatched up his lute case and carried on, legs doing that remarkable thing again where they put one foot in front of the other. Honestly, it’s some kind of miracle. If his head didn’t currently feel submerged underwater, where time moved all too slow yet the world as a sickening oxymoron whooshed by in a dizzying blur, rendering him unable to think, to feel, to take proper action, then he’d applaud himself. The best he could do was give himself a mental pat on the back – though that seemed more sympathetic than commending. 

In one blink he ended up stood back at the campsite. It looked utterly abandoned, stripped down of any belongings owned by the dwarves who’d evidently been and gone already. The only tell-tales remaining to say anyone had ever stayed here last night were Yennefer’s tent, the campfire, and the already falling apart A-frame shelter made from sticks that Yarpen constructed. It would probably last for a few more days at best up against the wind. Inside lay a rumpled and slightly stained rag, forgotten. 

Much against his will, his eyes drifted over to the lonely rock sitting at the edge of the camp.

_‘We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.’_

The ghost of his voice rang ephemerally in his ears.

Get away for a while.

Get away. Get away. _Get away_ -

Unwittingly he squeezed the lute tighter, as though afraid if he let go he’d drown. It’s actually somewhat daunting how hollow his insides suddenly felt from smothering down any sort of reaction. Whatever reaction kept trying to boil wouldn’t be expressed in a refined manner, and all Jaskier could think to do was desperately hold onto that mask of composure and equilibrium.

There hadn't been any coherent plan in returning, yet Jaskier roamed deeper into the campsite regardless. Perhaps he’d been making a vain attempt to catch up with the dwarves. Safe to say, he'd missed them. As he continued, his foot nudged against something. A tawny pouch laying innocently on the ground.

Jaskier recognised it.

_‘Eat. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.’_

Geralt’s voice this time. 

Stiffly he bent down to collect it, one arm still suffocating the lute against his chest. The pouch must have been dropped by him last night or forgotten this morning. A single honey oat cake remained inside – starting to stiffen as it dried out. With care he manoeuvred the cake out from the pouch and let it sit on the palm of his free hand, treating it more delicately than glassware.

Some olive branch this turned out to be.

And just like that, his restraint snapped.

In a fit of raw outrage, he drew back his arm and lobbed the tiny cake with all his might, watching it fly through the air and slam straight into that stupid rock; with an explosion of golden crumbs pattering down to the dry earth. Even more antagonised by the fact it hadn’t gone soaring over the edge of the mountain like intended, he stomped after it and resorted to kicking the ever-loving shit out of the ground.

Clouds of dirt blustered under his foot, speckling over the remaining dots of yellow until the (quite clearly guilty) cake had disappeared completely. 

After delivering one final decisive kick with a yell too broken to be furious, he crumpled sideways against the rock to appraise his handiwork, nails digging into the moss growing between the cracks. The weight on his chest didn’t budge. He had, however, released the death grip on the lute. As the spike of adrenaline drooped, so did a frown, finding himself unsure why that had mattered so much.

 _It’s what it stood for._ He justified petulantly, sliding down to the ground to sit amongst his shame. An unsteady breath brushed past his lips – one he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. 

Okay. It’s okay. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. 

Fine. Fine. Fine.

Fine.

Repeating the word _fine_ didn’t lessen the hurt or rid the churning sensation from his stomach.

* * *

Geralt punched Jaskier in the gut when they first met. Eighteen-year-old Jaskier had been quite smitten from that point forth. It goes without saying the punch hurt, he’s not implying that he’d welcome another with open arms quite the same way he did back then, however that punch had meaning. It had depth. _Significance_. It had so many other messages than a curt fuck off. It (strangely enough) said Geralt wasn’t a heartless animal who deserved to be branded by the descriptor ‘Butcher of Blaviken’. It convinced Jaskier to follow this man wherever the road may lead and sing his praise to anyone willing to listen. It, by all means, started their friendship.

This punch, by all means, ended it.

And maybe Jaskier had deserved that punch the day they met. He’s not so sure that he deserved…well it doesn’t matter now, does it? What’s done is done.

For a long while, he sat, lute out of its case and draped sorrowfully across his lap, but he didn’t indulge himself in playing it. Instead, he simply stared. And stared and stared and stared, at a distant flock of blackbirds moving through the air like opaque smoke. One of the birds wasn’t flying fast enough to keep up with the others, trailing behind and standing out like a tiny offensive smudge in the sky.

Fuck those other birds. 

A reminder to start moving soon nipped at his neck. Fairly so, since it arguably would be considered unwise to wallow on this mountain forever and travelling alone in the dark would be less than ideal. Though, the timeframe of the return journey would make that inevitable anyway. The sun loomed in the middle of the firmament, scarcely detectable behind its veil of semi-translucent clouds.

Geralt hadn’t returned. 

Procrastinating some more, he continued letting his fingers map out the general shape of the lute, finding the action therapeutic. Until he idly picked at one of the strings and it responded with an obtrusive twang. 

“Oh, really? Today of all days?” He glowered indignantly down at the instrument as if it had personally insulted him. “What are you giving me grief for when you’re equally responsible for this whole _Toss a Coin_ codswallop as I? Nay, you’re _more_ to blame.”

The lute stared back at him.

He caved.

“No.” He sighed, already beginning to twist the loose peg back into place. “No, I shouldn’t make a scapegoat of you. Forgive me.”

Because that would put him on the same level as…

He glowered more.

Tuning a lute had become second nature after years of lugging it around everywhere with him. What is an instrument if not an additional limb to a bard? Learning how to manage, fix and treat it right was of utmost importance. Lutes rarely ever fell out of tune if nurtured properly.

After tightening the peg and strumming experimentally, he gave a hum of approval to match the more pleasing sound offered by the strings.

“I suppose it is my fault.” He admitted.

Ultimately, if you reach too far for the stars, you're bound to get burnt eventually. That’s the moral of the story here. Yes, it’s cruel to dangle something so breathtakingly beautiful just out of reach, but that’s life. Cruel.

Jaskier is no idiot. In truth, he’s well aware that Geralt lashed out without due consideration. It happens. Anger is not something so easily leashed. Geralt’s accusations barely even held water so he couldn’t have thought through what he’d been saying. Honestly, claiming Jaskier was responsible for the Child Surprise disaster was like claiming a butterfly flapping its wings was responsible for the destruction of a tornado.

None of that gave him any peace of mind. It meant the pith and core of Geralt throwing about those accusations served as an excuse; an excuse to be rid of him. Jaskier wouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion had he not been pushed away and shut out for the majority of this week. Despite the climate of opinion, Jaskier can take a hint and know when he’s not wanted.

That’s the worst part: he had known. 

So yes, it is Jaskier’s fault. For wasting all that effort trying to fix something that never wanted to be fixed. Deep down he’s pretty sure he knew something like this had been bubbling under the surface of Geralt’s closed off conduct. Yet he’d repeatedly turned a blind eye. Maybe he’d underestimated the severity of it all, either way, that only made him all the more disappointed in himself.

And to add insult to injury, Yennefer’s _fucking_ tent Is still here.

Something burnt incandescently in his chest, sour and rotten, blistering unstoppably through his nerves until it welled up in his throat. Trying to swallow it back, he focussed on strumming strings to ground himself, channelling notes that were soothing and tender; though shamefully familiar. Once he realised what he’d started playing the tension in the atmosphere spiked again. He’d absent-mindedly been mimicking the very melody he wrote the day they met Borch; the morning after Jaskier ruined everything. The morning Yennefer showed up; _Yennefer_ who ruined everything.

Angrily he dug out the pencil that usually got wedged in his boot for safekeeping, holding it between his teeth to snatch his notebook from the open lute case, slamming that onto the rock – which now served as an improvised table. Hastily he flicked through pages.

“But the story is this…” He caught the pencil as it fell from his mouth, finally reaching the page he wanted and spreading the notebook open further. “She’ll destroy…with…”

_‘Her Sweet Kiss’_

Jaskier crushed the graphite into the parchment to mark the title above an unpolished song that he’d been developing. The melody he’d been drafting the day they met Borch hadn’t been intended for this song, neither had the lyrics accompanying it. Curious how they seemed to blur together all of a sudden. 

He reached for the lute and started up the melody again to make some adjustments, occasionally pausing to rework his fingering on the neck, experimenting with higher octaves, lower octaves. Notes so very soft and sincere. Until the impulse grew too strong. 

"The fairer sex, they often call it." He breathed out, shifting a finger. These lyrics were born straight from betrayal and spite, scrawled messily into his notebook, ready for use. "But her loves as unfair as...as a crook." 

And suddenly a dam broke, and he was sprouting words, memories, thoughts. _Everything_ that had built up these past few days crammed into this one half-baked song that's lyrics fell into place so perfectly it merited a little bow. Well, almost…

  
_“ - Her current is pulling you closer,_

_And charging the hot, humid night_

_The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool_

_Better stay out of sight_

_I’m weak –‘_

  
Jaskier’s breath caught, choking the next words. They didn’t belong here. They didn’t deserve to be here. They were never drafted for this song. Yet here they fit like a rose surrounded by thorns; beautiful and precious, but not easily reached without harm. How bittersweet. They’d been intended for this melody, yes, but in a separate song altogether. A song that no longer mattered. Perhaps, if they were here, entwined amongst the thorns of the other lyrics in 'Her Sweet Kiss', then it would teach him to stay away.

Still, he could not bring himself to speak them. Some things were too difficult and too delicate to be fully expressed in words, and words that did get spoken were often impossible to take back. Strictly speaking, he’d already given voice to a portion of the lyric he shied away from now. But at heart, he knew it remained one little pronoun away from completion. One little pronoun away from being honest with himself.

Too riled to remain seated he sprang up, fingers rhythmically returning to their dance with the strings. The wind shifted in harmony, swirling around him as if attempting to join in. Jaskier paid it no heed as he waltzed towards the edge of the outlook, performing for no audience bar himself and nature.

  
_‘If this is the path I must trudge_

_I welcome my sentence_

_Give to you my penance –‘_

  
Had Jaskier not atoned for his so-called crimes? And now he’s to be cast away like – like a worn-out shoe! 

  
_‘-Garrotter-’_

  
Wrongfully accused and wrongfully sentenced!

  
_‘ -Jury -’_

  
All because Geralt is too blind to see that the only person to blame is himself!

  
_‘ -and Judge!’_

  
Jaskier broke off with a pant, coming to a halt at the edge of the outlook affording a view of the landscape. The silence following was deafening. Like he’d somehow put the whole world on pause by bellowing out his woes so passionately from up here. That flock of birds had disappeared, wiping the sky clean and bleak once again, similar to a fresh roll of parchment waiting to have new ink spilt on.

As his heartbeat regulated the wind tired to a sober breeze, brushing icy kisses over every bit of exposed skin that it could reach and combing phantom fingers through his hair.

Okay.

He could do this. He’s a grown man. More importantly, he’s _Jaskier_ , the travelling bard whose songs are known by all for entailing wonders upon wonders. What he is not, nor ever will be, is a defeatist. He will get over this. Let this daffodil die. Wait for the more vibrant flowers of summer to bloom. Find solace in a new muse. He doesn’t need a Witcher – they’re overrated anyway! (or at least that’s what Jaskier is going to have to convince himself). He doesn’t _need_ Geralt.

And Geralt doesn’t _want_ him.

Those five stone-cold words felt like the final nail - or _nails_ – hammered into the coffin he’d been struggling to keep propped open. If Geralt wanted to be left alone, then _fine_. Jaskier would happily oblige and deliver on this so-called blessing.

“But the story is this,” He muttered bitterly, lowering the lute. 

Clapping, slow and deliberate, sounded behind him. Blinking confoundedly, he glanced over his shoulder only to find just about the second-to-last person he wanted to see right now.

 _Oh-!_ Great. 

Yennefer, taking long leisurely strides in his direction, like the song itself had summoned her very presence here. See? Demon. _Demoness_. 

“Quite the show.” She complimented. While she addressed Jaskier, her eyes spoke a different story as they carefully examined the campsite in apparent search of something or someone else. “Dare I say it’s narrative sounds vaguely familiar?”

“Up for debate.” He answered coolly, going about packing up (both his stuff and his emotions). He would not gratify her with the pleasure of witnessing him fall apart. “But thank you, I always appreciate a bit of standing ovation.”

She hummed, coming to a stop at his rock. “The woman you depict sounds dreadfully wicked.”

“Also up for debate.”

Something flashed in Yennefer’s eyes. “Do tell, what is it _she_ destroyed?”

His jaw set. “Everything.”

“Is that so? Do you make a habit of villainizing women in such a way? How terribly misogynistic.”

“I’m sorry, where have you been exactly?” He asked instead of acknowledging her comment.

She perched on the rock, and Jaskier definitely did not narrow his eyes in any way shape or form - no he's not at all a lunatic who's possessive over a rock because it's where he and Geralt sat last night. He's not. That would be daft. 

“Well,” She sighed excessively, examining her nails, “I was burning my belongings. The stench of wolf is not one so easily removed.”

Fair.

“That I can understand.” He grumbled, deciding not to draw a comparison between Yennefer burning shit and him beating up a piece of cake; one of them sounded more impressive than the other.

Though the tent’s outward appearance seemed to be intact, still a pristine white without any trace of smoke being belched from the opening. Then again, it was a magical tent. For all he knows, the inside is completely different from what it was this morning. 

“Oh?” She arched a brow. “Then might there be a reason to you wandering alone out here or am I to assume you’ve lost all sense?"

“Assume what you will.” He replied, clasping shut the case and rising. “Though I’m not exactly on my own by choice. More…circumstantial consequence.”

“What about…oh.” The realisation materialised crushingly obvious across her features. “Oh, now don’t tell me you and that Witcher have had a squabble as well? How lamentable."

“Yes, you reject him and he, in turn, sends me packing. Squabble is certainly a kind way of putting it."

“Hardly sounds fair.”

A dry laugh forced itself from him. “No, hardly does. But hey, at least the chances of us ever crossing paths again has been greatly reduced.”

“Well in _that_ case.”

“Silver lining to every cloud.” He mused, pleasantly surprised they weren’t at each other’s throats right now. Their shared amusement cut thin. Side-glancing her, he couldn’t help but notice her usual air of confidence had been partially damaged. “Are…you alright? All things considered.”

Because he’s not heartless.

“What do you care, bard?” She shot back defensively.

Nevermind, as of right now, he’s heartless.

“Fine. I don’t. Suit yourself.” He scowled and adjusted his hold on the strap, preparing to leave. For a second he floundered on the spot, unsure what to do before nodding in polite etiquette. “Good day to you.”

With that, he determinedly trudged away from her and towards the exit out of camp. There’s nothing like the threat of small talk with a megalomaniacal witch to inspire him to get a fucking move on it.

Said megalomaniacal witch proceeded to follow him.

“What are you doing?”

“Is this not the way back down the mountain?”

“…You have _got_ to be kidding me.” He groaned, letting his head loll back to face the heavens so he could silently demand what he’d ever done that was so despicable to warrant this – all of this. Karma had tormented him long enough; hadn’t it anyone else to lay its touch of misery on? It’s well overdue for a change of target, surely. “I don’t suppose you might have any magical, hoodoo voodoo, poof into a cloud nothing, related ways of departure?”

“Why, do I bother you?” She asked with faux innocence. 

“Not at all, but oh no, would you look at that there's two paths. Hm, dratz. Why don’t you take _that_ one and I’ll take _this_ one? First to reach the bottom wins bragging rights.” He proposed, even going to the extent to shoo her with one hand.

“As much as I do adore a bit of _friendly_ competition, I fear you wouldn’t last a day out here if I left you with what, your wits alone?” She teased.

He scoffed, “I’ll have you know I could be an excellent swordsman if I so wanted to be.”

“… _could_?”

“Well, I uh, might have skipped one or two fencing lessons during my youth in favour of indulging my inherent virtuosity, but I’m still acquainted with the basics.”

“Is that supposed to be useful when you don’t currently have a sword?”

“I’ll sharpen a stick.”

“With?”

“A rock – one I might also use to ward off nosey witches.” 

Yennefer didn’t seem that impressed. “Your mind must certainly be a wondrous place to live.”

“I’ve survived for this long with it, haven’t I?” He huffed and picked up the pace. After a short interval he reluctantly added, “Though I suppose if you absolutely must accompany me, I’ll allow it.”  
  
If she smirked smugly, he refused to acknowledge it.

"I must say, it's a rare sight to see you away from crawling at the heels of a Witcher," She stated. “Like a dog bound to its master.”

“If memory serves, I’m not the one bound to Geralt by anything.” He retorted snidely, ignoring how ‘The Law of Surprise’ rebelliously popped to mind.

The look she gave him was truly glacial. “Only by your reputation.”

He offered a contemptuous smile. “I can forge another.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

“Your nose. It’s bleeding.” She informed him, unflappable.  
  
By reflex, he wiped his nose, befuddled to find a smear of blood pasted on the dorsal side of his hand. Well, that’s odd. Jaskier hasn’t had a nosebleed since he got punched in the noggin by a particularly uncivil gentleman for _borrowing_ a horse a few years back. On the bright side, at least this time around, he didn’t have a broken nose to accompany the bleeding – not a favourable combination. 

“Ah, shit.” He muttered, halting in the middle of the pathway. Two fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose while he hurriedly patted down his figure in search of a rag.

“Handkerchief?” Yennefer offered courteously.

“No, it’s fine. I know I have one somewhere I just…” A squeamish nose warbled at the back of his throat as blood dribbled over his upper lip. “ _Ngh_ – just need to…find where…fuck this stupid, pocketless – ahah!” Half stuffed into his waistband he found the rag Xavier had lent him yesterday, victoriously tugging it free. A little obscene perhaps but he's glad to have held onto it now.

Yennefer’s lip curled as she watched him squish the beige material against his nostrils. “Charming as ever.”

“Oh, give it a rest.” He told her, nasally voice not sounding extremely intimidating. “I’d like to see you wear this monstrosity and figure out where to store a handkerchief in it. There’s no pockets. None! Can you believe it? I mean, it’s like the tailor was trying to set me up for failure.”

She held out one hand, and in a flash of blue light a lacy handkerchief floated elegantly down onto her palm. “I think I’d made do.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He sneered best he could around the rag. “Why don’t you lay it on a little thicker how grossly advantageous all your magical doodah is. You know, some of us normal folk actually need to worry about things like pockets or the lack thereof.”

She crossed her arms. “Why don’t you try travelling across a mountain in a dress? I give you my full permission to complain until your heart's content about _pockets_ being a hindrance if you can do that without stumbling at least once.”

“Well, perhaps in future you’ll consider more travel appropriate attire.”

“As you might consider a garb with pockets.”

While rolling his eyes, he tentatively drew back the rag to check whether the bleeding had slowed – it hadn’t. 

“Not many would have the temerity to wear a dress on a dragon hunt, I’ll grant you that.” He smirked. “I mean it’s either inspirational or dim-witted.” 

“Very funny.”

“I know, I’m hilarious, people often exalt me for-“ 

Something sharp cracked in his abdomen, cutting off whatever he’d been about to say right down to the primal thought.

It happened so out of the blue and so quickly that he doubled over with a surprised hiss of pain, forgetting entirely about his nose predicament to wrap both arms around his middle. The bloody rag consequently dropped to the dirt.

Then, as abruptly as the sensation came, it left.

“Fuck.” He gasped out. “Ah, fuck.” He repeated as a few splodges of crimson dripped onto the sleeve of his doublet. He may as well burn this whole outfit when they finally get off this fucking mountain. 

“Impossible.” Yennefer’s voice whispered distantly.

“Whew. Sorry about that. Stomach…pains.” He informed her, forcing himself to retrieve the rag and straighten back up despite the lingering twinge of discomfort. Maybe he’d pulled a muscle…in his…stomach. Yes. Hastily he set about dabbing his nose. “Terribly sorry once again. Really I _should_ consider seeing a healer if this persists.”

“How?” Yennefer breathed. Only then did he realise her eyes were fixed on his stomach.

“Uh, how what?”

“How did you manage to...?” She sparingly elaborated, still lost in some kind of daze. Which wasn’t at all disconcerting…

He paused, then scoffed. “Look it’s not although I planned on embarking on such a lengthy endeavour in a pocketless outfit. I didn’t even notice until this morning. Completely accidental. If anything it’s the bloody tailor's fault for-“

“Forget about the fucking pockets and tell me how you did it, you bumbling idiot!” She snapped, her awe morphing into irritation alarmingly fast. 

He blinked. “Did what?”

“Do not play coy with me.” She seethed, storming in his direction brandishing a hair-raising glare.

Instinctively he threw the rag and skittered backwards. “Oh, no, no, no. I know that look. Yennefer I – oh gosh – why don’t we take a quick breather?” He held an arm out between them. “I assure you I’m not playing anything.”

“Then tell me how! Now!”

“I – “ His feet stumbled on the terrain as he backed into the uneven slope of the mountain; an earthy wall of rocky formation that was just off being perpendicular to the path. Not exactly a viable route for a get-away.

Yennefer, wasting no time, sunk her nails into the unbuttoned center lines of his doublet, preventing any kind of escape. He had to marvel at the strength of this woman. Not that he’d ever dare try and engage in a fight with her since he didn’t fancy being magically forced into place – which she has done before and it’s not at all a pleasant experience. Passingly he wondered why she wasn’t using any magic at present.

“You will explain stage by stage how exactly you managed to pull _this_ off.” She briefly released one hand to poke his stomach, making him flinch sharply. “Did Geralt order it to be kept a secret from me? I should have known.”

Brilliant. Not only was Geralt’s misguided outburst directed at him but it appears Yennefer’s decided to go and lose all her bloody marbles on him as well. This, _this_ right here is why he knew they should have taken separate paths.

“I haven’t pulled anything off! Have you gone quite mad?” He blurted out then internally berated himself because, _um hello_ , don’t bait the insane, angry witch. “Clearly this is – fuck – _clearly_ not about me. Why don’t you take this up with Geralt and I’ll just be – uh – on my way. Out of both your hair and –“ 

“Tell me, damn it!” She snarled, her breathing turning frighteningly unstable.

“I don’t know what you want me to – “ 

A low growl coming from the right interrupted...whatever this was, jerking their attention away from one another. Moving guilefully, a wolf with thick brown fur advanced on their position, its paws padding effortlessly along the jagged rocks. Or…at first glance, it appeared to be a wolf. On second glance, Jaskier gulped, realising he'd never seen a dog or wolf with such a humungous build. What the hell were they feeding wolves on this mountain?

“Fuck.”

“Yen…Yennefer?” He stuttered out, not daring to break his gaze away from the predatory animal. “Tell me that’s not a wolf.”

“It’s not a wolf.”

“Oh. Good.”

“It’s a warg. Get behind me.” She instructed, pushing Jaskier back before he’d even had a chance to comply.

“And that’s…decidedly worse?”

Worse would be correct, because the warg hadn’t arrived alone, and Jaskier swore the blasted thing curved its mouth into a self-satisfied sneer as two of its friends stalked into sight.

Yennefer’s hands started to glow a dangerous, crackling blue, and he took that as his cue to turn and sprint in the opposite direction, as fast as physically possible.

 _What!?_ She had been one measly eye twitch away from incinerating him ten seconds ago! Jaskier could be reckless and self-sacrificing under the right circumstances, this however, was palpably _not_ one of those circumstances. Yes, he hoped and prayed for her survival. On the off chance she wouldn’t be able to fend off three wargs, what help would Jaskier be anyway? He had a _lute_. Not exactly a formidable tool to perform any impromptu heroism with! 

Pick your battles.

Behind him all hell broke loose; snarls and whimpers and the disturbing _crack_ of bone ringing out. Mostly he thinks Yennefer is winning. Nevertheless, he’s not going to stick around to find out.

Boots pounding against the dirt he raced along the pathway with all the elegance and swiftness of a duck; a drunk duck. His lute bobbed uncomfortably by his side and his abdomen strained, but that was undeniably better than claws and teeth.

Up ahead a fork in the path approached. The turn left would start him on the trek back down the mountain. The turn right would send him upwards to the dragon cave again. For two beats of inner ambivalence, he hesitated with a sweaty hand clenching and unclenching at his side. 

A howl rang out.

Today is officially the worst day of his life.

And for some inexplicable, stubborn, tremendously ill-thought-out reason, he went left.

* * *

Yennefer thundered back towards the dragon cave, flicking a stowaway chunk of warg flesh from her shoulder as she went. That didn’t do much to improve her roughened appearance. Areas of her travel cloak were now stained with blood, subduing the previous delicate leaden-blue of the design and matting the fur on the cuffs and collar to the point of being unsalvagable.

The wargs proved themselves to be far nimbler than their bulky forms would initially suggest, which had resorted in most of her efforts going into dodging attacks rather than enforcing them. That’s not to say they’d bested her. She’d been quick to discover fire was the trick to dealing with wargs. Lots of fire. Though, she had impulsively imploded the last remaining one – hence her appearance.

Téa and Véa rose their eyebrows simultaneously at the state of her. 

“Where is he?” She demanded, slightly short of breath.

They shared a glance before wordlessly pointing in the direction of the outcrop where everybody had congregated earlier. Scantily nodding her appreciation, she continued onwards while attempting to conceal the fairly noticeable limp to her right leg. 

Fortunately, she barely had to take three steps before Geralt, predictable as ever, sensed her return and emerged. It took more will-power than she knew she possessed to refrain from rolling her eyes at the fact Geralt hadn’t moved from where she’d left him after the argument, which was stretching to be over an hour or two ago now. If she were to hazard a guess, she’d say Geralt has been brooding in solitude over all his _devastating_ troubles.

Only after deducing that Yennefer appeared more or less unharmed did his concerned eyes soften, and she had to assume he could smell that none of the blood belonged to her. 

“Yen…what…?”

“I’m not here for you.” She snapped, ensuring sure that had been firmly established before continuing. “Where’s that fucking bard hiding?”

Geralt seemed somewhat taken aback by the question. “Why?”

She laughed, curt and uneven. “Did you honestly believe I wouldn’t find out? That I wouldn’t notice his covert condition? I admit it took me more than a minute but even so.”

Geralt tensed. “Find out what?”

“Must I spell it out for the both of you? Perhaps your travels made you dense over the years. What could I possibly be referring to, I wonder? How about the life growing inside a certain bard we’re both no stranger to? Does that touch a chord with you?” Geralt’s face paled impossibly further. “Oh, _very_ good, you are aware then. Now I ask you to explain yourself. How did this happen? Do you have any idea how impossible this should be-?”

“Yen, slow down.” Geralt cut her off, both hands clasping her shoulders with something intense and worried flickering in his eyes. “You’re certain of this?”

She momentarily faltered. “I…yes.”

“How do you know?”

“You have no right to ask me how I came to know when-“

“It’s important.” He stressed. 

She searched his face, finding the desperation twisting it slightly unnerving. “Fine.” She caved grudgingly, making sure to heighten the intensity of her glare anyway. “Whatever means used to accomplish this is still developing. In doing so it, sporadically releases ripples or…signatures, if you will. Once these are detected, it’s not difficult to track down the source.”

“Fuck.” Geralt pulled away and veered around. “ _Fuck_.”

Perplexed by the agitation, she frowned. “You must have known.”

A pained glance was thrown over his shoulder her way. “I suspected.”

“Interesting. _Interesting_ since you never once mentioned anything to me.”

“I had every intention of bringing this to you.” Geralt admitted, keeping his back pointedly turned. “Why do you think I joined this hunt in the first place?”

“Yet I don’t recall you breathing a word of it.”

“How could I while you flaunted about presenting that escort like a damn accessory? I couldn’t get anywhere close.”

The anger from earlier curled in her gut again. “I think you’ll find you had plenty of opportunities considering my escort is no longer with us.”

Geralt jerked back around to face her. “Then I deemed informing you too great a risk.”

“Why?” She cried in bewilderment. “Why wouldn’t you tell me you knew of a way! That _he_ has a way! You stood and watched me waste away my efforts here while having the answer I sought right at your side the entire time! How could you?”

“For good reason. As I said, I didn’t know for certain whether he was really…” Geralt trailed off with an irritated sound oscillating at the back of his throat. Almost like he deemed the defining word dangerous or dirty. In any case, he avoided stating the reality. 

“So? You knew how much I wanted this and yet still you kept it from me!”

“No. I didn’t – this isn’t – fuck. Last night, I nearly told you. To confirm my suspicions, I needed the opinion of a mage. But all that talk of finding a fertility cure…”

Yennefer blinked in surprise. “That’s why you came to my tent? For him?”

Regret instantly flooded his features. “No. No that’s not the only reason I-”

“Oh, spare my bleeding heart.” She cut him off coldly. “What care do I have for that wretched thing now? If I’m truly so important to you, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to explain how exactly this happened?”

A series of enigmatical twitches pulled at the muscles of Geralt’s features as he offered her a long stare in return. In the frozen second stretching between them, she fought to gather the energy to take the answer she desired straight from his mind, but the battle with the Reavers and wargs had left her drained. 

The damage done between them wouldn't welcome any kind of restoration for some time, and it showed. Whenever they fought it became deadly, like two swords clashing together with the dangerous clang of steel that didn’t stop until it drew blood – the colour of gooseberries, red gooseberries; ripe and sweet but still carrying a sour note.

“No.”

“Geralt, either you help me or you’re just another thing stood in my way.” She warned.

“I won’t.”

She snarled and stepped closer. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to ask the man himself how he managed to pull off the impossible.”

“…No. The method of what he has is not one attainable by you.”

“I think I will be the one to judge what _is_ and what _isn’t_ attainable by me!”

“It’s complicated. Far more complicated than… dragon hearts and whatever other shit you’ve been experimenting with.” He argued.

A scoff broke past her lips. “I think if a lowly bard can do it, I’ll manage just fine.”

That twitch returned, fiercer. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

She rose a challenging brow. “In what respect is it any more your business than it is mine?”

“Because he invoked the Law of Surprise, Yen!” Geralt threw his arms out wide, shout echoing across the mountainside.

A blink of surprise registered on Geralt’s face, either as a direct result of guilt or oversharing, Yennefer couldn’t decipher which. Nevertheless, it quickly morphed back into anger as he slammed shut his eyes for a strained second. There was pain hidden behind that shout. The anger held up like a shield protecting an already defeated cause.

Before either of them had a chance to get the next word in, Borch came marching out from the dragon cave.

“What in the world is going on out here? You’ll have the whole mountain holding its breath around the pair of you at this rate.” 

Véa, looking incredibly bored, shrugged. “The sorceress has discovered the bard's situation. The Witcher has revealed the bard invoked the Law of Surprise. They’ve been arguing for all of five minutes.”

Téa, equally as bored, added, “Six and a half. I counted.”

Something bright gleamed in Borch’s eyes at that. “Oh, wonderful! We’re finally acknowledging that are we? Heavens it was exhausting tip-toeing around the subject.” He said, sounding all too chipper.

“That’s the Child Surprise you mentioned yesterday?” She asked slack-mouthed. “It’s _Jaskier’s_?”

“No.” Geralt immediately backtracked.

Borch, crossing the distance over to them with his hands held behind his back, couldn’t seem to be able to win a battle against a smirk fighting its way onto his lips. “Yes, I must admit I too was surprised by the news. However, Geralt is right. Child Surprise is singular. We seem to be forgetting about the other one residing in Cintra.”

Geralt shot him an exasperated glance. “That’s not helping.”

It didn’t quite sink in at first. When it did Yennefer nearly slapped him. “Two? You rob not one but _two_ children with destiny as your alibi yet have the audacity to demoralise and lambaste me for searching out ways to bear one of my own?”

“You mistake my concern for derision. I am not your enemy. What good would having a child of your own do? All of this so you can feel validated-“

Yennefer did slap him that time.

“Tread lightly.” She warned him, voice wavering.

Slowly he turned his head back around. “You’re the only person who can give your life meaning. It’s not an obligation that another being should be expected to fulfil. Least of all a child.”

“Just as you’re not obligated to care for the children you have bound to you?” She countered spitefully. 

Geralt stiffened. “You speak of that which you know _nothing_ of.” 

“Is that so?”

“Calm yourselves,” Borch told them.

Yennefer whirled on Borch. “And you, you knew of this matter as well?” 

Borch deadpanned her. “Of Jaskier? Is it not obvious?”

“Perhaps for a dragon.”

“Frankly I’m surprised a sorceress as capable as yourself didn’t notice sooner.”

“Forgive me, I’ve been somewhat preoccupied, saving your young.” She retorted, gesturing towards the dragon cave. “In case you didn’t notice.”

“It doesn’t matter. There isn’t a second Child Surprise owed to me. Or a third, or a fourth, or however many the prevailing belief claims there to be.” Geralt barked, sending a stern glare to scrape over each of them. “He invoked the Law of Surprise, yes, I never said I received a Child Surprise.”

“…It was implied.” Yennefer drawled out.

“Then consider it unimplied.”

Borch rose both brows. “Has any other form of payment been offered?”

“None but – “ 

“Then I think the answer is clear.”

“It’s in his best interest that – “ 

Yennefer was quick to jab a finger against his chest. “Do not speak of his best interest! You dare try and suggest you take his wellbeing into consideration after exiling him from your company out here! Oh yes, I know all about the bad blood shared between you both at present. Not to mention the sheer idiocy of bringing him along on this hunt in the first place. Do either of you have the slightest idea what you’re doing?”

“Did it occur to you that this wasn’t a mutual decision?" He snapped back. “The stubbornness of bards refuses to be bested. Nothing would have prevented him from coming, whether I so wanted him here or not.”

“He’s _pregnant_.”

“He doesn’t know!” Geralt yelled, then his shoulders went rigid like a bucket of ice-cold water got dumped right over his head. That little titbit slip definitely hadn't been intended. Geralt avoided their glance, scrubbing furiously at his face while mentally scrambling for more shields to put up, evidently finding none as his arms fell limp at his side and a sigh deflated his whole body. "He doesn't know..."

For the first time today, Yennefer noticed how weary with burden Geralt appeared, that is, if the grey bags hanging under his eyes were anything to go by.

“Well,” Borch awkwardly cleared his throat, “that _does_ explain a few things, come to think of it.”

Yennefer’s finger dropped from its place dented into Geralt’s armour. “What do you mean he doesn’t know?" She paused and shook her head in disbelief. “How can he _not_ know?”

“Yes.” Borch crossed his arms and stared all too knowingly at Geralt. “I wonder.”

“Fuck.” Geralt huffed. “It’s complicated.”

“As you’ve said.”

“He…” Another huff. “As far as I’m aware he doesn’t remember anything.”

A beat passed where they all stood quietly waiting for him to expiate on that or for the penny to drop, but that seemed to be Geralt’s sound justification. 

“What, and you didn’t think to, I don’t know... _tell him_?” She fired back incredulously. 

“No. Yes. Of course I did.” Geralt growled, briefly taking second to gather himself afterwards. “But he can’t know. If he doesn’t find out yet and discovers something else first then the child, it doesn’t have to…and nobody will be able to say it’s…”

“Yours?” Borch finished lamely. 

Geralt shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

Another silence rang out, painfully long this time.

Eventually, a sadistic smirk crawled onto Yennefer’s lips. “And here they call me heartless. Perhaps there’s an air of truth to what they say about Witcher’s being deprived of emotion after all.”

The Witcher in question _flinched_.

The sigh that came from Borch was slow and stale. “I now see the reasoning behind the bard’s distress…” He muttered critically. “That’s not how these things work. That’s not how destiny works. It will not be so easily outrun or manipulated.”

“It’s what it needs to be. I cannot hold claim over that child. Nobody can think I hold claim over it. Not when it’s –“ Geralt abruptly cut himself off, the leather of his gloves squeaking as his hands balled into fists. 

“Oh, for crying out loud. He’s going to find out eventually. This isn’t a common cold, Geralt. It’s a baby.”

“I’m aware.”

“Whether you like it or not, this is your destiny.”

“Destiny is a crock of shit.” 

“If you truly didn’t believe in it then you would have already told him.” Borch pointed out. “Now listen to me, because this is crucial. This Child Surprise – “

“I don’t have –“

“You do, more than one. The first is lucky enough to be born into royalty, with all of Cintra’s armies to protect it. The second, on the other hand, has but a single bard who’s yet to even learn of its existence. Of whom I cannot help but notice isn’t present, so I suggest we cease this conversation until he is.” Borch stated sternly. “He needs you, Witcher, and he needs to know.”

Geralt frowned at the ground, the creases in his forehead exposing his mind to be hard at work deciding on a suitable course of action or argument.

Yennefer ran out of patience. “What _I_ need to know is how this happened. If he doesn’t remember, then he is of little use to me. So, I’ll ask nicely one last time. How did he do it?”

“Forget it. What you want and what he has are two completely different things.” Geralt insisted.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Damn it, will you just trust me?”

“Oh, like how Jaskier trusts you?”

“ _Yen_.”

“Enough.” Borch tried.

“You’re right. This is different. I don’t want to steal children.”

“That’s a crooked view.”

“Your record thus far says otherwise.”

“You shouldn’t even know of this.” Geralt hissed back.

“Given how spectacularly you’ve handled this affair so far, nor should you!”

“Both of you hold your tongue!” Borch bellowed, silencing them immediately. “I’ve grown sick of this eternal bickering that accomplishes nought. Likewise, I forbid this conversation from continuing any further until one of you can tell me where exactly Jaskier is right now. That is of paramount importance. The how’s and the why’s can wait.”

Yennefer blinked. “Is he not here?”

“Not as far as we know,” Véa replied. 

“You pointed me in his direction when I arrived!” She argued.

“No. We pointed you towards the Witcher since you never specified.” Téa said. "To our understanding, the bard departed after the sorceress did earlier and never returned."

Geralt had the decency to look sheepish. “I lost my temper with him. But I presumed he’d return to the camp and wait there regardless.”

“What, wait until you could be level-headed again?” Yennefer scoffed, hands on her hips. “Yes, he did return. That was over an hour ago. We both departed together and soon after were attacked by wargs. Somewhere amid the chaos, he ran, and I thought he'd return here to all of you.”

Véa shook her head. “We’d have seen him.”

“Then…” Yennefer’s eyes widened. “Oh – that imbecile. You’re right about one thing, the stubbornness of bards.”

“What do you mean?” Borch asked.

“I failed to take into account the little spat he and Geralt had. Of course, he wouldn’t return here. You truly must have _said some things_ this time.”

Realisation dawned on Geralt. “I didn't think he’d actually…”

“Leave?”

“Fuck. Not by himself.”

“Then it appears the only person who should know of this ordeal is currently on his way down a monster-infested mountain.” Borch gave them both a reprimanding glare. “Alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sips the iced coffee that's been keeping me alive while editing this* So Jaskier's pregnant. 
> 
> Hands up if you didn't see that one coming lol. Mpreg isn't everyone's cup of tea, I know, and I'm sorry to those who didn't want this to turn out as mpreg. Can I add the slow burn tag yet? I feel like I deserve it. This story is currently 57214 words long and it's not even been a week for them. Anyway, I cannot even express how excited I am to be out of canonland! Catch me prodding Jaskier with a stick to see if he's okay for the next chapter. 
> 
> By the way, I'm aware that in the show it looks like summertime but for the sake of this story, I'm going to say it's not. Feel free to guess whether it's winter or spring, and how far along Jaskier is already >:)
> 
> Also, if you don't think that Borch is the smuggest lil shit-stirrer alive, then i'm gonna have to agree to disagree with you.
> 
> Due to the amount of angst, I felt obliged to sneak in a line inspired by Joey Batey's D&D monster video. The one where Greg was created - if you know, you know. (And I'm just saying, at the start of this fic Jaskier DID want a new horse, so if he gets one you can bet your ass it's gonna be called Greg.)
> 
> I highly recommend listening to Her Sweet Kiss to understand the past three chapters a bit more, If you haven't already that is. Especially since it's the song Jaskier sings in this chapter. 
> 
> References:  
> [Joey Batey's D&D Monster](https://www.reddit.com/r/netflixwitcher/comments/gep0il/we_got_joey_batey_to_roll_up_his_very_own_custom/rel=%22nofollow%22)  
> [Her Sweet Kiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fl_4x75q10E)
> 
> Recommended songs that inspired this chapter:  
> * 'Say Something' by A Great Big World, Christina Aguilera.  
> * 'That's Life' by Frank Sinatra.  
> * 'Jolene' by Dolly Parton. (obviously)  
> 


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